The Housemate Agreement
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. Quinn Fabray needs a roommate, and Sam Evans wants to get away from his. It shouldn't be so hard, right?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This story is actually months in the making. I've had this idea sitting in the back of my head for some time, and I've contemplated whether or not I should start on it, or if I should even release it out (since I have two more stories that are pending updates), but then I realize that if I don't put this up, it'll only gather dust and cobwebs. It's a little different from my other Fabrevans fanfic, but I hope you'll like it just the same.

So, enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 1**

She was late.

Again.

For the umpteenth time that month, but in her defense, it wasn't her fault at all that her apartment just _had_ to be so goddamn far from school, practically at two ends of the city. It also didn't help that her class was scheduled at eight in the fucking morning. The teaching faculty had to be insane. Between scrambling for the train and dodging people in the streets, it was practically impossible to reach in time without needing to wake up at the crack of dawn.

_Fuck my life._

She had always hated New York, totally despised the ever-present bustling of human beings striding self-importantly down the pavements in their designer clothing and pretentious thousand-dollar haircuts with their noses high up in the air, as cars and taxis honk their way through traffic. The concrete jungle was a breeding ground for air pollution, and she loathed the lack of simplicity. She missed having to look up at the sky and see the puffy cotton-white clouds instead of towering buildings looming overhead in a downright judgmental manner. Even with summer creeping around the corner, everything felt cold.

In the midst of all that havoc, a blonde figure dashed across the road, her short bob flying in the wind as she effortlessly navigated through the moving vehicles. The fast pounding of music blasting out of her headphones managed to block out any surrounding noises that came with the rush hour, and she was sure a couple of cars had given her the obnoxious horn, but with an attitude, her heart-shaped sunglasses and leather backpack, the girl was on an important mission.

_Hallelujah, Starbucks!_

Grinning victoriously, she shoved the glass door open and stepped into the vicinity, inhaling the heavenly smell of freshly-brewed coffee. Her one-person party was short-lived, however, when she caught sight of the clock on the wall. She had approximately half an hour to get her ass to class, and judging by the horrendous crowd and traffic situation, that wasn't going to happen, but she made a beeline for the counter anyways.

An upbeat alternative rock song started playing in her ears—something indie, one that she hadn't heard of—and she bopped her head along to the song. It wasn't bad; actually, she quite liked it. Maybe if the singer wasn't too whiny, she might enjoy it even more. The queue was advancing somewhat, a little faster than usual, but there were still three people in front of her. Shrugging one strap of her bag off her shoulder, she dug through its contents for her purse, extracting it in time to find herself next in line.

"Good morning, Quinn, the usual?"

She was about to open her mouth and answer the barista behind the counter when a solid, tall person swooped directly in front of her—in an array of plaid and denim—to conveniently cut her queue without so much as to acknowledge her presence.

"A Grande mocha to go."

He had a deep voice, sultry and husky, with a slight Southern twang; a voice that for some odd reason sent a delicious shiver running down her spine. For that split second, she had completely forgotten to breathe, but damnit, she wasn't a weak little girl. Immediately sobering up after the initial shock, she was now furious at the intrusion, and coupled with the crappy morning, she wasn't going to tolerate it. Ripping her headphones off her ears, she hung it around her neck and violently tugged on the fabric of his button-down shirt.

"Hey!"

"You just cut my queue!" she cried out lividly.

"Fine, look, I'll pay for your coffee, alright?" he spat in annoyance, throwing down a couple more bills on the counter. "Give the lady her usual."

She ought to be thoroughly offended. After all, this random stranger had just invaded her personal space and rudely demanded for his beverage, but she couldn't really argue with a free cup of her routine drink, and thus didn't put up a fight. There was a difference between standing up for her honor and being smart about it. That, however, didn't mean she was admitting defeat. The guy was still an asshole.

"Thanks," she begrudgingly mumbled.

Despite his impatience, the corner of his oversized lips tilted upwards in a cocky smirk. "You're welcome," he replied gruffly, drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

The barista returned with a cup, sliding it across the counter. "Here you go, Quinn—"

Before she could even reach for it, a larger, manlier hand swept down and wordlessly swiped it off from right beneath her nose. She didn't know if it was intentional or not, but that definitely crossed the line—pun intended. He didn't even offer her a backward glance as he bulldozed out of the café and left his own cup of coffee behind.

_Okay, no, that's it!_

Snatching the beverage off the counter, she stormed out of the place and noticed him trying to hail a cab by the sidewalk, still clutching her drink in his hand. Huffing in irritation, she went up to him and whacked him on the back. Startled, he jumped and whirled around, knocking her in the process, their bodies colliding.

She hadn't seen it coming, and she wasn't sure how it happened, but the next thing she knew, the front of her brand new tank top was dripping with scalding hot coffee. The thin material absorbed the liquid at once, rendering her recent purchase as see-through as glass.

"Son of a—" she gasped.

"Watch where you're going, Barbie," he snapped, pulling out a handkerchief from the back of his jeans. If she weren't so distracted at the moment, she probably would've scoffed at his suburban ways, because really, who ever carried a hanky around anymore?

Assuming that he was going to offer it to her, she extended an arm out, only to be completely ignored as the man wiped his sticky fingers instead, grumbling under his breath about her incompetency. The coffee was starting to soak into her bra, staining the lace material an ugly shade of brown, and God, could her day get any worse? How was she going to school now? Groaning in frustration, she scoured her bag for a pack of tissue paper—relieved to have remembered to drop it in there the night before—and began scrubbing at her clothes.

_Fucking hell!_

It only made things worse. She now looked like a heap of poop.

_Great, just great._

"What else do you want, huh? Are you following me now?" he demanded, his greenish-gray eyes piercing and accusatory.

"You wish, jerk face!" she retorted, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "You took the wrong cup. This is your stupid Grande mocha—"

A phone suddenly rang and she immediately patted down her stuff to check if it was hers, but then the ringing stopped.

"Hello?"

Quinn rolled her hazel eyes as the guy answered his call, cursing and swearing into the receiver.

_Of course_, she thought bitterly.

She caught snippets of the conversation, something about 'this crazy chick won't leave me alone', and figured she really didn't deserve this. Her presentation was due in fifteen minutes and she was sure that she had just suffered second-degree burns on her chest; her coffee wasn't even what she wanted and this sad excuse of a gentleman was blaming her for his misfortune. She was having none of it, and while she still had some dignity left in her, she was going to be mature enough to walk away.

Sticking her thumb and index finger between her lips, she executed a pitch-perfect whistle and flagged for a taxi. One instantly screeched to a stop at her feet, probably the only best thing that had happened to her all morning, and she didn't hesitate in seizing the opportunity. Before the douchebag decided to ruin it for her all over again, she figured she ought to make a break for it.

"—I'll be there, alright? Give me ten minutes, I'm on my way."

Apparently, even that was too much to ask for.

"Excuse me!" he barked, roughly shoving her petite frame aside, and just like everything else, he slid into the vehicle and stole her transportation.

"Excuse _me_!" she shrieked, completely losing it. "That's my cab!"

With one leg already in the car, he paused to face her, not even the least bit apologetic. "Not anymore," he quipped. His gaze trailed down to the cup in her hand, as though finally realizing her sole purpose of pursuing him, and another smirk graced his guppy-like mouth.

"Oh, thanks, by the way," he added, exchanging the Grande mocha with her half-empty drink. "I don't care so much for caramel macchiato."

And then he kissed her.

He _fucking_ kissed her.

It was pompous and overbearing, just oozing with testosterone and male ego, and despite the initial tingle that shot right down to her toes, she hated every freaking second of it. In fact, she probably would've bitten his conceited fishy lips had he not pulled away in time.

The guy didn't even give her the luxury to recover. Just like that, the taxi sped off, blending into traffic and leaving her seething on the pavement while she desperately tried to ignore the heat that surged through every nerve ending in her body.

_Fuck my life._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Before I proceed on with this story, I just need to say that I'm going to take my time with this story because I just want it to be as perfect as possible, and I think it's got great potential to be better than 'Whisper in My Ear'. Therefore, I hereby apologize in advance if I don't update this one as often as you would want me to. That said, please review! Much appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hi there! Okay, apologies for the slow update, but I'm a little anal when it comes to this story. I actually have 5 different drafts of this chapter, and I've written and re-written this so many times, at some point I told myself that I had to put a foot down. So I consulted in a friend of mine, who have read my stuff since ten years ago, and she gave me great direction.

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 2**

He was late.

As usual.

Punctuality hadn't always been Sam Evans' strongest suit, but it wasn't his fault at all that his roommate had to be so goddamn noisy at night. How was it that Noah Puckerman always managed to scout out some unsuspecting damsel in a bar and bring her back to their apartment, was beyond him—or had it always been the same girl? Either way, between trying to cancel out the excruciatingly loud moans and carnal pants, it was an impossible feat to ever get any shut-eye without needing to park himself out in the lift lobby.

_Fuck my life._

"Could you step on it? I'm extremely late for a very important meeting," he grumbled, leaning forward between the two front seats of the vehicle.

The cab driver glanced over at him through the rearview mirror and smirked, his thick moustache twitching as he narrowed his dark eyes. "You were a jerk to that young lady, and I can very well just ask you to get out of my cab, so I suggest you suck it up and let me do my job."

_Fucking son of a bitch._

Frankly, he wouldn't even have gone all the way there to get his daily caffeine fix at such an ungodly hour if this meeting didn't hold any significance. It had taken them months of persistent persuasion to arrange for this and he couldn't afford to screw it up now—not when they were oh, so close.

"Yeah, but you don't understand," Sam went on, trying to reinstate his point. "I can't be late for this meeting. It's really important for me and my band."

"A band, huh?" the Mexican guy sneered.

Sighing, the musician glared ahead at the unrelenting traffic, hoping that his non-existent Jedi mind trick would miraculously part the way, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Perhaps if he focused hard enough, he could make the car fly.

_Yeah, right._

"We're meeting a really famous producer today, and we've been trying to get a hold of her for ages, so I would really appreciate it if you could drive faster. I'll even mention you in my acknowledgements," he retorted, waving his hands in a dramatic flourish.

If he saw the other guy roll his eyeballs in the reflection, Sam didn't comment on it, but God, how he hated the morning crawl. The congestion was something he definitely could do without, even though he was usually a subway sort of guy. When he first arrived in The Big Apple, the never-ending dynamics of the city was the first thing that captivated him. Granted, the dominating skyscrapers were rather suffocating and bitter, but it was a mark of success, and despite its immensely daunting appearance, he knew that the air was filled with glitter and gold dust.

Staring out at the passing buildings, he took a sip of his coffee and envisioned their faces on the huge billboards, decked in bright lights and swarming with delighted fans. He spied the famous record store, where countless of artistes like himself had graced and launched their careers. A line of screaming teenagers would anxiously be awaiting their arrival—in a limo, no less—and he'd step out to the flashes of cameras in his face, the paparazzi gathered all around for a shot of them. They would smile and wave, and then go on tour for a whirlwind ride of a celebrity's life, all the while doing what they truly love. It couldn't get any better than that.

Reigning from the south, Sam had always envied the sophistication of the north—of how nothing seemed to deter it of its suave demeanor. The urbanity of New York City drew him in like a moth to a flame, and he was blessed to acquire band mates who shared the same interests and goals that he did; but who was to say that the journey was easy? Months of failed auditions and slews of irrelevant gigs were rendering the group pretty discouraged, but they were all aware that it was simply a rite of passage that every struggling musician had to go through.

Finally, this was their ticket to stardom.

"Alright, here you go, Keith Richards" the cab driver announced, pulling up by the curb of a high-rise tower. "Nineteen dollars and sixty cents."

_I guess it's going to be mac and cheese from now on._

Nevertheless, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two crumpled ten-dollar bills and handed it over to the man. "Keep the change," he said and hopped out of the taxi. Gulping down the rest of his beverage, he tossed the empty cup into the bin and dashed through the huge swivel door.

_Wow!_

Like everything else, the place didn't disappoint. The vastness of the space created a sense of modernity with its linear structure, bold choices of furniture, perfectly waxed flooring, a ceiling that looked endless, and walls that hung massive pictures of legends and A-listers. His swoon-fest was short-lived, however, when he caught sight of the clock on the wall.

_Oh, shit!_

He skidded over to the lift lobby, pleased to find that one was open and ready for his arrival. Entering the cabin, he pressed for it to bring him up to the established floor.

_Unbelievable._

Even the elevator was taunting him, taking its own sweet time to ascend to the appointed level, in total disregard to his urgency. Nothing seemed to be cooperating with him that morning, and just his luck; the heavens would choose that particular day to play a cruel practical joke on him. Tapping his foot impatiently against the marble floor, Sam lifted his arm and checked his watch. He unleashed a string of fluently rich vocabulary into the air and then started jabbing at the button by the side of the door in frustration, cursing for it to travel faster.

"You're late."

He was greeted by his best friend's grim expression the instant the door slid open. Finn Hudson's lips were set in a thin line and his brows furrowed in disapproval, clearly displeased with Sam's tardiness. Usually a rather laid-back sort of guy, his burly built was slightly hunched over, and the stress lines were starting to show.

"I know, I'm sorry," Sam told him apologetically.

"Where were you? You told me that you were on your way twenty minutes ago."

"There was this chick and—"

"Damnit, Sam, there's always a chick, isn't it?" Finn snorted, leading them down the wide corridor. "I can't believe it. Do you know how difficult it was to arrange for this meeting?"

"I know, I know," Sam shamefully hung his head, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his denim pants. "But I had to sleep in the hallway again. Puckerman was making such a ruckus last night."

Against his better judgment, Finn snickered in understanding, slowly shaking his head. "Was it Santana?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Sam said, "I have no fucking clue. She was loud, like _really_ loud."

"She once told me that my dick was invisible."

Sam balanced between bursting out into rude laughter and keeping his amusement to himself. Finn came to a stop in front of a door and gave it several light knocks before promptly entering the room.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Evans. You're late."

Sue Sylvester's voice sliced through the thin silence in the air, clipped and curt, as he shamefully entered the room. Head bowed low, he tried to avoid the piercing glares of his three other comrades, and swiftly parked himself in an unoccupied spot on the leather couch, mumbling a half-hearted apology in an attempt to justify his tardiness.

Grimacing, he lowered himself down in an unoccupied seat. "I know, and I'm really sorry, but there was this chick and—"

"I don't care," the woman interrupted, sticking her nose up in the air. "You see, Mr. Evans, punctuality has always been a problem with those who think that the world revolves around them and their approval."

Sam could feel three other pairs of eyes burning holes into his skull, and he shrank back into his chair. Gathering an appropriate amount of courage, he lifted his eyes up and dared himself to face her. Sitting right smack in the center of the office behind an unnecessarily colossal desk, she had her fingers poised to rest beneath her chin. Reputedly, she was an extremely intimidating woman, and he couldn't agree more. Her short dirty blonde hair was slicked to the back and a permanent scowl was etched on her stone-set face.

"It's not like that, I swear—"

Her hand shot up, the storm brewing behind her cold exterior. "Must I remind you boys that you're not a star until you've attained at least one multi-platinum record and sold-out concerts worldwide? I'm deeply unimpressed by your lack of interest. Clearly your priorities lie somewhere else."

"Sue, it's not—" Finn tried to reason out, but when he received a sharp glare from her, quickly caught himself and realized his mistake. "Sorry, I mean, Ms. Sylvester, you have no idea how honored we are that you're taking time off from your busy schedule to meet us, and I apologize for my band mate's unintentional disregard for your policies. I promise you that it won't happen again."

"It better not, Mr. Hudson," she snarled menacingly. "You owe your friend a drink, Mr. Evans. He just saved your sorry ass."

"Yes ma'am."

Beside him, Puck was sniggering in his seat. With a scowl, Sam discreetly kicked his ankle, effectively shutting him up. He was already humiliated enough as it was without needing his friend to add salt to the wound.

It was that blonde girl—the one with the rose-tinted sunglasses—who had been the devil of the morning, coming in and turning his life upside down, inside out and backwards front. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Ever since he had barged in on her queue—fine, he was being a jerk about that—and paid for her coffee, it was like he'd unknowingly signed some kind of psychopath treaty or something.

She popped up every time he turned around, all up in his business, invading his personal space with all her sass and bossiness; he reckoned it must be just pent-up sexual frustration. It tended to happen from time to time; girls coming up and throwing themselves at him—perhaps it was the Southern charm—and it couldn't help to have a little fun. She was so worked up about every small thing; it was almost too cute, really. He couldn't resist it.

So he kissed her.

It was nice; nothing earth-shattering, but there was still the lingering taste of her strawberry lip-gloss. Unconsciously, Sam poked his tongue out from between his mouth and ran it across the small opening.

"I've heard the demo song that was sent to me," Sue informed them in nonchalance.

"And what do you think of it?" Puck asked, eagerly leaning forward for the verdict. He had, after all, written the entire thing.

"It didn't speak to me," Sue replied monotonously. "It lacked finesse and it's not something I haven't heard before. Frankly, it's not the type of material that can be used for a debut single, you follow? There isn't an identity to it. I'm sorry, boys. That just won't do."

Dejected, Puck shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Sam felt his stomach sink. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

"So, what does that mean for us?" Rory Flanagan spoke up for the first time that day, his thick Irish accent weirdly pronouncing certain words.

"I'm sorry, boys, it's a no go for me."

Finn was practically at the edge of his seat now. "But—but we—"

"There's got to be something we can do, right?" Puck blurted out.

"I can't allow it. The four of you aren't ready yet."

_What does that mean?_

"That can't be right," Finn said, denial strong in his tone. "We've been ready for a very long time, I mean, we've search everywhere for the perfect producer and—"

"Let me finish, will you?" Sue interrupted his rant. "I can't give you a record deal at the moment, however, I have a proposition for you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Alright, so it's a little rough around the edges, and it's kind of slow at the moment, but it'll pick up from here, I promise. I just needed to establish the characters and the situation, and it'll be rock and roll from here on! There are little similarities between this chapter and the previous one, if you happen to realize it :P A big thank you to everyone who has stuck by me and my stories, and read and reviewed the previous chapter!

**Gleeothfriends90210ccjsdAMD:** LOL! That's a really long name! I've figured out "oth" as One Tree Hill, and I love FRIENDS, and 90210 is self-explanatory, but I'm interested to know what 'ccjsd' and 'AMD' stands for :D Anyway, thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it!

**Tomorrow. will. be. kinder:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter. I'm glad you like it so far. I have really high expectations for this story, and as much as I try to rush myself, I feel that perfecting each chapter takes time, which I guess accounts for the slow update. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Quam314159:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it!

**RJRRAA:** Hello there! Much like my other story, I'd like to thank you so much for taking time to read and review the previous chapter! I hope you'll enjoy this story!

**Fabrevansgleek:** Thank you for reading and reviewing! It's always appreciated.

**ReadingFanfiction13:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I'm glad you find some humor in the story. Well, I guess after reading this chapter, you can tell that Quinn is not the only one with a bad day :D Hope you like it!

**FabrevansIsEndgame:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

**LilaPoland:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked it!

**Ali-and-em:** Thank you very much for stopping by to read and review!

**Laceleatherlove:** Hi! LOL! I'm glad you liked how the first chapter went! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I hope you've enjoyed this update!

**FabrevansOTP:** Hi there! Thank you so much for the lovely comments! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter! I appreciated it a lot!

**VoteFabray4PromQueen:** Hello there! Yes, I definitely recognized you from Whisper in my Ear. Thank you so much for the faith and encouragement! I'm glad you like the story so far! I really appreciate you reading and reviewing!

**Mandorac:** Whoots! I was doing my happy dance when I saw that you've reviewed this story! After all that drama with Whisper in my Ear, I hope this story gets a fresh start. First of all, thank you for all your encouragements! You've been a big inspiration and a big help in my writing. LOL! I guess, because I work in a similar metropolitan environment, it has some reflection on how I perceive a big city, and how at times, I just want to escape it all and go some place quiet. It's weird, isn't it, the Yankee-Sam, when he's actually quite Southern. Hehe! I was contemplating on the ONE thing that would send Quinn off the edge, and I think that one thing would be a stranger violating her personal space, 'cause she such a feminist that way. The next meet-up wouldn't be too soon, because there are certain situations that I still need to establish for this story, but it's all in my head now, and I can't wait to write it! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I totally appreciate it!

**PatrickJ87:** Awwww! I'm glad that I've made you smile! Yes, Sam does have an ego, and I think it'll be fun exploring that! Much like you, I find his jerk self quite endearing, but maybe it's because I'm biased that way :P Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I hope I didn't disappoint you in this chapter :D

**DeGleesi:** Hi there! Thank you so much for hopping over and reading this story and leaving a review! I've always been a suck for stories where two people hate each other and then end up falling for each other, and even though that's like a major spoiler—not to mention totally predictable—I can't help being constantly drawn to these sappy cliché stories. I'm glad you like the story so far!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hi guys! Thank you so much for the awesome reviews! This is a really fun chapter to write because it deals with more characters. There's not much in terms of development in the story, but I hope it fills some gaps.

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 3**

"Dude, this fucking stinks," Puck mumbled glumly as he twirled the plastic straw between his fingers. "We've been working on that song for months. How are we going to produce a better one in two weeks?"

Mirroring his band mate's sentiment, Sam slouched into the warm metal armchair and focused his attention on the ice cubes floating about in his glass of water. Bummed out from the unsuccessful meeting with one of the industry's leading producers, the four lads had flocked to a nearby café for a 'professional de-briefing session'. As intriguing as it sounded, the so-called appraisal unfortunately only consisted of Finn and Rory ordering their hearts' out in plates of food, Puck demanding to know why the establishment didn't serve alcohol at eleven in the morning, and Sam sulking at a corner.

Glancing over at his circle of friends, Sam reckoned they were an epitome of a band of broody musicians.

To have woken up that morning and hoped that everything was going to change for the better, and then only to have them crushed right before him, was a major setback to his dreams—not to mention the fact that he'd fought tooth and nail with his parents about moving to another state—he needed to prove them wrong and fulfill his end of the deal. Pursuing a lifestyle of music was never an ideal career choice in his family. Surrounded by doctors and lawyers, he was thus expected to make the Evans' name proud. If he failed in New York, he'd have to return home and settle for a nine-to-six job at his cousin's law firm.

_That ought to be fun._

His inward sarcasm was channeled complete with a groan and an exaggerated roll of his eyes. He'd probably hog-tie himself to a bull and get run over by a truck before he would allow that to happen. Regardless of what he family thought of him, Sam was determined to put their measly boring-ass jobs to shame. For that to happen, however, he and his comrades would need to quit moping, and get their heads in gear. They needed to start cracking on a brand new song.

"Alright, you know what, we can do this," he told the group, breaking the somber situation. "We _need_ to do this. Sue has given us another shot at a record deal, and there's no room here for negativity. So, I suggest we get our butts moving to the studio. We've got our work cut out for us."

He figured it was a damn good speech—even if he did say so himself—and was rather pleased with it.

"No, I can't, man," Finn replied through a mouthful of spaghetti. With a quick chew and swallow, he continued, "I promised Rachel I'd pick her up from rehearsal."

"What?" Sam spat out and sighed in frustration. "Why? You two live together. Can't you just meet her at home?"

From across the table, Finn shot him a glare. Despite what he felt about his relationship with Broadway-hopeful Rachel Berry, Sam knew for a fact that his dear friend was totally pussy-whipped. Perhaps it was because he didn't have a stable job like she did, but aside from making music all day long, Finn was always stuck with the chores. The guys would come over for jamming sessions and the poor chap would be off dusting a bookshelf, or straightening out the flowers in a vase, or washing the dishes. All he needed, really, was a chambermaid's costume.

_Now I know what to get him for his birthday._

To Finn's credit, being engaged to a performer was actually serious business, and Sam had absolutely no idea how the dude did it, but the couple had been together since forever; way before the band was even formed. They were high school sweethearts—one of those stereotypical jock/drama club-beating-the-status-quo type sort of love—and no matter how nauseatingly mushy they could get sometimes, Sam couldn't deny just how adorably perfect those two people were for each other.

"Fine," Sam reluctantly gave in. "Maybe we'll all meet up at your apartment after that and—"

Wincing aloud to interrupt the blonde, Finn regretfully said, "I can't, dude. Rachel wanted to go to this fancy-schmancy book reading thing in the Upper East Side, and it's kind of like a black-tie-and-suit event, so—"

"Dude, you serious?" Puck snickered, and Sam couldn't agree more.

This whole new level was breaking the _bromance_ code, not to mention a chip off Finn's already-questionable masculinity. First of all, no matter how stocked up their apartment was with literature, Sam had never once seen his friend actually pick up a book to read. Who could blame him, though, it all sounded pretty pretentious. There were names of authors he couldn't even pronounce, and language that were too fanciful to even consider understanding.

"What's wrong with that?" Finn demanded, his defensive wall building up.

"You're going to go to some high-brow cocktail party—"

"Book reading," Finn corrected his Mohawk band mate.

"Whatever," Puck retorted dismissively. "But the bottom line is: you're ditching your friends for some poetry shit? Where are your balls, man?"

"Hey, look, I'm sorry, guys, but I've made a promise—"

Tired of this nonsense, Sam decided to step in with the big guns. "This is our career on the line, Finn, our futures. If we don't nail this song in time to impress Sue Sylvester, you can damn well kiss your wedding goodbye. I'm sure you'd hate to disappoint Rachel, after all those intricate fairy tale stuff she had planned for it."

Finn paused, absorbing the words, and Sam knew he'd fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. He observed the myriad of emotions flitting through the drummer's face as he carefully weighed out his pros and cons. Patiently waiting for an answer, Sam reached for his glass of water and took a refreshing gulp. The city was a sweltering nest of heat and pollution, and God; it was such a stupid move to sit out along the pavement by the bustling traffic.

"Fine, fine," Finn relented at last. "I'll go talk to Rachel. Maybe she can take one of her production friends with her instead."

"Attaboy," Puck cheered, slapping him on the back. "Show her who's boss."

"You do know that she's going to chew on your _arse_ for that," Rory pointed out, bursting the blissful bubble. "It'll be like watching the site of the seventh battle of Arthur in Caledonia."

"I have no fucking clue what you just said," Puck told the Irish musician.

"It's an expression."

* * *

><p>Her classes had been a drag, the droning of her lecturers still ringing deep in her ears like a permanent lull, and she simply couldn't wait to retreat back to her safe haven. Strolling down the sidewalk of cracked cement and tiles, Quinn kept her steps light, in time to the beat of the music from her headphones. She ran the choreography in her mind, picturing the movements in extreme detail for when she would need it later on.<p>

The building itself wasn't the grandest of establishments, or the best of locations, but it made for a cozy spot to set up the perfect dance studio. Once a run-down fire station, it was then bought over by some rich-ass guy, privately owned and restored as an empty warehouse. Alongside two of her good friends, Quinn had rented the space, gathered their savings, and spruced the space up with just the sufficient amount of renovation to pull off 'Footsteps School for Dance'.

It wasn't the best, or the most advanced for that matter. The sound system constantly screwed up on them, the mirrors were hardly enough to accommodate the rooms, the floorboards creaked way too much to the point of distraction, and odd puddles kept appearing on the ground due to the leaks in the air conditioning. All in all, it wasn't the most conducive of environments, and they had always tried to find any means possible to improve on their facilities, but nevertheless, they knew that they had achieved their goal.

The sole purpose of the studio had never been for anything more than to simply share the joy of dancing to the less fortunate. Quinn and her co-founders didn't make a lot out of it. Most of the students' payments usually ended up with settling the rent, or ensuring the safety with diligent maintenance. Regardless, being an instructor there was rewarding enough.

It only meant that she had to stretch every single penny to make ends meet.

"Nice top, Quinn," Mike Chang commented, smirking the instant she walked into the cool reception.

Scowling dangerously at the Asian guy behind the booth, she peeled the headphones off her head and carelessly tossed her backpack down on the countertop with a huff before slumping over, groaning for having the crappiest day of her life. She lolled her head from side to side and tried to shake the tension off her body.

"If you want a massage, Fabray, all you have to do is ask."

"Yes, please," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut and willing for the migraine to disappear. Her class was to resume in forty minutes so she couldn't afford to injure herself by being sick.

His hands were dexterous—practically magical, even—as they made contact with her stiff shoulders. Rough and slightly calloused from years of martial arts and dance, his warm fingers kneaded her aching flesh, disentangling the knots in her muscles. Slowly, she began to relax, feeling the stress evaporate away, and God, it felt so damn good.

"How was your day?" His soothing voice was right by her ear, the proximity allowing her to inhale in his musky aftershave.

"Shit."

Just thinking about it was going to set her blood pressure off again.

"Why do you have a coffee stain on your shirt?" he asked.

Another thing to add to the list of unfortunate events.

"Some asshole bumped into me and spilled my drink," she snarled. "I was late for class so I couldn't go back home to change."

"So you've been walking around all day smelling like a caffeine druggie?"

She could tell that he was enjoying her misery, so she blindly backhanded his side, somehow hitting him squarely in the crotch. Jumping from the shock—and pain, no doubt—he cupped his precious manhood and sputtered out a couple of rich expletives. Unable to control the instinctive bodily reactions, Quinn craned her neck around to look and instantly cracked up.

"Glad you found that entertaining," he wheezed out. "Damnit, Quinn, why'd you do that for?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she managed to gasp out between laughter. "I was going for your leg and it just—"

"Hey, those are my crown jewels," he exclaimed. "You can't just go around whacking it."

"It was an accident—"

Two girls came in just then—her regulars—and both Quinn and Mike greeted them with matching smiles, determined not to giveaway anything that underage minors shouldn't know.

"Hey, Dianna, Ashley!" she chirped. "It's nice to see the both of you today."

"Hi, Quinn," the twin sisters chorused and made a beeline for the computer so that they could sign in for her class. They were adorable ten-year-olds and half the time, Quinn was unable to tell them apart, especially when they would be all cute and decide to dress alike.

"Hi, Mike."

That would be Ashley, the one who had a massive crush on the Asian dude, and didn't know how to hide it.

"Hey, Ashley," Mike grinned, leaning over the desk, and Quinn had to resist the urge to roll her hazel eyes. He obviously knew about the girl's infatuation, but at the risk of sounding like a perverted pedophile, he enjoyed the fan-girl attention. Perhaps she should hurt his penis again to jolt him out of it.

_Barf, barf._

"Is Brittany here yet?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "She's in studio three, getting ready for her jazz-funk class."

"Great," Quinn said, grabbing her belongings from the counter as students started trickling in. "Better go and say hi to her first, and then change out of this mess."

Heading down the hallway, Quinn could already hear the music before she opened the door to one of the smaller studios, where she had the pleasure of watching Brittany S. Pierce burning the dance floor with her sizzling-hot routine. The other blonde was taking one of the advanced students that day, and Quinn was sure that Brittany was going to make them all get a run for their money. Crossing her arms over her chest, Quinn leaned against the doorframe and waited until she was done.

"Are you trying to kill them, Brit?"

"Quinn!" the girl squealed, running over to envelop her fellow instructor in a tight bear hug.

"Oof! You're sticky," Quinn chuckled, but accepted the sweaty gesture nonetheless.

Brittany, the ever-ditzy, innocently air-headed—though commonly insightful—bombshell giggled at her expanse. "Oh, shut up, you're going to change out of your clothes anyway," she pointed out. "Which, by the way, looks like a puke carnival. What happened?"

"Some jerk spilled coffee over me," Quinn explained with a tired sigh.

Wagging her eyebrows suggestively, Brittany asked, "Ooh, is he hot?"

Automatically, Quinn's face contorted in repulse. "Ew, no!"

"Well, you know what they say…"

Quinn quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"If he spills coffee on you, he's going to be the father of your child."

That didn't even make sense.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, there you go! I'm really excited to explore all the friendships in the story, but hopefully this is sufficient for now. The line "the seventh battle of Arthur in Caledonia" was taken straight out of Wikipedia. I have no idea what it is, really, but I like the song "Caledonia", which I think is in Scotland. :D

**LilaPoland:** Hi! Firstly, I apologize for the long wait. It wasn't in my intention to hold the chapter out for so long, but I hope this update is okay for you. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and leaving wonderful comments! I really appreciate it! Sam/Quinn interactions would come soon, I promise. At least now we know what Sue Sylvester told the guys, right?

**IWantNiley3. 0:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you liked this chapter!

**ReadingFanfiction13:** Thank you for reading and reviewing! Yeah, they're all having a rather crappy day, but hopefully it gets better. LOL! There aren't any Sam/Quinn interaction in this chapter, but it'll come soon, I promise :D

**Fabrevansgleek:** Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it!

**Mandorac:** THANK YOU! LOL! I'm so glad you liked the previous chapter even though there aren't any Fabrevans scenes. I think you've caught on to something there, with Quinn being involved in Sue's agency, but I'll leave you to your imagination :D Big hint/spoiler there! I've added more characters in this chapter, and I can't wait to play around with them! So excited! Thank you so much for constantly being there to read and review and give great feedback! I really appreciate it!

**Tomorrow. Will. Be. Kinder:** LOL! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter! This chapter I guess should explain a couple of things regarding Sue's proposition, but there's more to come, I promise :D Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I truly appreciate it!

**Gleeothfriends90210cccjsdAMD:** I love Carrie Underwood! Such an amazing woman, and of course Dianna Agron! Thank you so the explanation! LOL! I'm glad you caught the bit about them becoming roommates in the future, which should be coming soon, I promise! I love Puck's character as well! Too bad they aren't doing much for him in the show besides the pool cleaning business, but it's better than being pushed in the background, right? He's going to play quite a role later on, so that would be interesting! Thank you for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! It's always appreciated! I'm glad you love Puck's character! He's a really fun one to write!

**FabrevansOTP:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I truly appreciate it! I can't wait for the actual plot to start too, and rest assured, it will come soon! I LOVE the juicy bits as well, and I would love to get that bit going, but unfortunately all the boring stuff has to roll first. A review is never late, so you don't have to apologize for anything. Hope you've enjoyed this update!


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Chapter 4! Thank you so much to those of you have stuck by me and read this story! It's a little late because I always start on this after I'm done with Whisper in my Ear, but nonetheless, whenever I start on this, I always give it my all! Hope you like it!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 4**

"Are you still looking for a roommate?"

With a resigned sigh, Quinn nodded her head and tore her eyes away from The New York Times in her hands to glance up at her Asian co-worker, as he plopped down next to her on the ragged vintage sofa that had been patched up way too many times. Mike took a peek over her shoulder at the page she had been reading from, and smirked.

"What?"

"Seriously? The classifieds?" he asked, skeptically cocking an eyebrow.

She hated it when he judged her like that, because, really, she wasn't the one sleeping with a 'safety blanket' at night; so technically, he wasn't one to talk of logical opinions—especially when he'd recently just splurged half of his pay on a limited edition Darth Vader toaster. In fact, there was an entire chest of things that she could use at the moment and hold it over him. She just didn't want to, because it was meant for a bigger purpose.

"Excuse me, I don't see what the problem is," she retorted, slapping his head with the newspaper. "People put ads in here all the time."

"Sure, but how many of them end up not being creepy?"

Pausing for a moment in search of the perfect defense, Quinn's mind began to wander back to the many candidates she had interviewed in the past week, and involuntarily shuddered at the unfortunate memory. If there were a way to bleach them all out, she would've gladly done so after the fourth person she had met.

Personally, she wouldn't have gone to such desperate measures if it weren't important. Living in The Big Apple was a bitch to her measly salary, but she had instantly fallen in love with her apartment the second she had seen it, and despite the rocket-high pricing, she had agreed with the rent on impulse.

_I must've been on pot._

It was all terrible judgment on her end; one in which she had to constantly remind herself every morning, that the burning hole in her bank account was worth the amazing view of Manhattan—even though, technically her loft was located in Midtown South, so that statement was just bullshit and she knew it. All in all, the monetary issues were finally catching up and nipping her in the ass. The only option she had left—without needing to give up her precious bachelorette pad—was to get a housemate.

"Okay, fine, you got me there," Quinn conceded, flinging her hands up in defeat. "But that last girl wasn't even a girl, and he/she had bigger boobs than me. It was disturbing."

There was a rainbow of expressions that passed through Mike's face before he eventually burst out in obnoxious cackles. Narrowing her hazel eyes, Quinn stuck her bottom lip out in a childish pout and crossed her arms over her chest, slumping further down into the tattered leather of the couch, thoroughly not appreciating the stab to her pride.

"Shut up," she grumbled.

He settled down enough to casually sling his arm across her shoulders. "Why do you keep getting yourself into these situations, Q?"

She crinkled her nose up at him because as much as she tried to stay mad, it always seemed impossible. Mike Chang was quite the charmer. "I don't know," she groaned, tilting her head to lean against his bicep. "Maybe I'm just a typical blonde that way."

"Oh, come on, now, stop it," he gently chastised and playfully ruffled her golden bob. "This is a pity party, and you're not that kind of girl, alright? So pick up that pretty little ass of yours and let's get out of here. I'm in the mood for some dairy."

They had earlier closed up the studio for the evening and Brittany had left straight after to meet up with a friend, so it was just the two of them. Whenever that happened, Quinn and Mike would always end up in activities that revolved around food—or a night of Salsa dancing, but that's a whole other story—and so help her God for the pending sugar rush. He might as well serve alcohol to a three-year-old.

"Again?" she questioned incredulously. "We just had ice cream yesterday."

"No, we had gelato yesterday," he told her in faux seriousness, holding a finger up to reinstate his point. "It's very different."

Quinn rolled her eyeballs then. Lord, she was in deep trouble.

_Boys and food._

"Whatever, Chang."

* * *

><p>"My brain is about to self-combust," Finn grunted, sprawling out on the carpet. "I need some food."<p>

"You just ate a tray of lasagna like three seconds ago," Puck flatly pointed out and took a swig of his ice-cold beer—perhaps the third one since they'd arrived at the apartment. "Your stomach is like a bottomless pit."

"This is Sparta!" Rory enthusiastically echoed after, pumping his fist in the air.

_Look at that; an Irish Spartiate. It's almost as funny as the time he did the Irish Na'vi._

Sam snorted at his band mates' antics, and then randomly chucked his guitar pick across the room out of boredom, where it sailed in the air for a while before bouncing off Finn's large forehead.

"Fuck!" he spat out, propping himself up on his elbows to glare at the culprit. A slim red line was already starting to appear, the sight igniting a round of snickers from the rest of the boys. "That effing hurts, Evans."

"Awww, what's wrong, lover boy?" Sam cooed in a mocking tone. "Your girlfriend's not here to smooch it all better?"

"Don't be a jerk, Sam."

The blonde musician knew that he had struck a nerve by playing the 'Queen-controlled Boyfriend' card, especially when it involved the irritated drummer, but Finn was an open book. Frankly, it didn't take much to wind him up.

Rachel hadn't been pleased with the news, of course, which meant that Finn had been shitting in his pants when he had copped an earful from his enraged fiancé while he nervously paced around the house. Still, as Sam perched himself on the zebra-printed beanbag chair in the middle of the couple's living room, mindlessly strumming his guitar, he couldn't resist eavesdropping on the one-sided phone conversation. It had been entertainment at its best.

"Don't be such an easy target, Finn," the blonde quipped in reply, grinning in that cocky way of his. He didn't know when it had become such a blast to rile his best friend up, but it was now his all-time favorite hobby.

"You threw your guitar pick at me."

_Sweet Jesus, please forgive the poor man._

"Do you hear yourself?" Sam scoffed. "Or maybe I should throw something heavier at you so that it'll jolt you out of that iCarly show you always watch."

"Hey, Sam Puckett can kick your sorry ass, buddy," Finn countered scornfully.

Sam had to bite on the insides of his cheek to suppress his amusement. "I don't even want to know how you know that but—"

"Alright, alright, that's it. Time out." Puck intervened, waving his hands around. "I don't want to play referee to your catfight again. Why don't you two grab a drink and chill out? Finn, stop being a girl. Sam, quit being an asshole. Now kiss and make up."

"I disagree," Rory spoke up, chewing on some popcorn. "I haven't watched anything more interesting than this since The Ashes in nineteen ninety-seven."

"The what?"

"The Ashes, Puck," Sam helpfully supplied, because somehow that information stuck with him. "It's like a cricket tournament played only between the English and the Aussies."

"Huh."

Setting his guitar down on the floor, Sam allowed for the dude to process all the jargon as he got to his feet and stretched his arms up above his head. "I think I'm going to have that beer now," he announced to no one in particular, and then proceeded to pad over to the kitchen. Heading straight for the refrigerator, he reached in for the bottle of Bud Light. It wasn't the best, but at least it was Rachel-approved to consume in the house. "Alright, so what have we gotten so far?" he inquired, using the edge of the countertop to flick the metal cap off.

"Nothing," Finn deadpanned, staring blankly up at the ceiling. "We've been cracking for two hours, and all we have is a measly chord progression and a boring drumming pattern."

The brew was bland, the mixture of bitter sweetness barely registering on Sam's tongue as the liquid trailed down the path of his throat. He grimaced at the awful beverage, wondering why the heck someone even bothered inventing such a drink. Nevertheless—against his greatest sanity—he took another swig to rid himself of the previous one. Perhaps that was the twisted idea.

"Hey, can I ask you guys a question?" Puck addressed the group. A beat later, before anybody could answer him, he added, "about girls?"

Almost like a freeze-frame, jaws simultaneously dropped to the floor in utter disbelief. Puck inquiring about relationship issues was like Puck not having sex—near to impossible—and so it came off as a shock to Sam and the two other lads that he'd actually swallow some of this enormous pride and bow down to those with the lesser experience.

"Sure, dude," Finn replied him, his tone laden with uncertainty. "What's up?"

In total nonchalance, Puck chugged down the rest of his beer before continuing. "What's it like to be monogamous?"

Sam was definitely sure that the question wasn't posted to him—or Rory for that matter—since he wasn't tied down in any way, but he couldn't resist listening in. It could serve as a better resolve for his available self in the future. He was in no way _not_ interested in the opposite sex—perhaps for the occasional one-night-stands where he didn't need to worry about needy girls trying to establish 'feelings' with him—they were like exotic fruits to his person. Years of failed attempts had rendered him jaded to the means and dictatorships of women, and so as far as possible, he avoided going to such exhausting lengths.

Finn shrugged his broad shoulders. "Okay, I guess. It's different for everyone. I'm perfectly comfortable where I am with Rachel; we understand each other even though we butt heads now and then."

"Does it get boring?" Puck wondered, cocking his head to one side. "I mean, does the excitement wear off?"

"You're talking about the 'honeymoon period', right?"

The Mohawk dude raised his arms up. "Whoa there, I'm not getting married."

Finn clicked his tongue. "I know that, you goon. What I meant was that, you're wondering how long it's going to take before you get bored of each other."

"Exactly."

Sam glanced over at Rory, who was fairly invested in the conversation, absorbing as much as he could as he chewed on his popcorn. Long out of a relationship, the Irishman's story had been a bit different when he stepped into the land of the United States. He had crossed the ocean to be with a girl by the name of Sugar—a ditzy, overly-bubbly heiress to one of New York's leading design labels, By The Mottas, whom he had met when she was on vacation in his country—and for a while, it had been one of those Disney-esque relationships, but they had quickly realized that it would never last. For one thing, her parents weren't approving of his foreign roots even though, really, there wasn't anything relatively foreign about it. For another, well, there was nothing in particular that they had in common anyway. They were just two people, who had fallen in love with the idea of something distant, and Sam never really understood Rory's intent on staying.

They had bumped into him in a bar one night, drunk as a boiled owl.

"It varies, I suppose," Finn told him thoughtfully. "Rachel and I try to spice things up as much as possible."

"You two still have sex, right?"

Sam almost snorted the booze out through his nose. He didn't know why he was so surprised; he should've expected as much. Receiving identical glares from his fellow band mates, he hid behind his bottle and turned away to disguise his mirth.

"Yes, we do, Puck."

"Does it get dull?"

Oh, Sam was enjoying this so much.

Finn was clearly uncomfortable with the topic—fidgeting with the loose thread on the carpet—but like every male specimen on this Earth, he tried to play it off like it's not a big deal at all.

"Well, sometimes we need to get inventive and—"

"Shit, forget I asked," Puck interrupted, looking mildly scandalized. "I don't need the four-one-one on your little romp fests."

"Why the sudden interest in monogamy?" Sam questioned his friend. "Please don't tell me you're finally settling down."

"Okay, fine," Puck caved in. "You guys remember Santana?"

"That loud Latina from last night?"

"She's moving in."

The silence in the room made even the slightest movement sound like a nuclear explosion, and Sam was sure he was choking on his beer. Coughing on his drink, he gave his chest a few hard thumps before his windpipe cleared and he regained his equilibrium.

"When?" he wheezed out.

Puck was apologetic, and his voice was almost regretful.

"Tonight."

* * *

><p>The notice was taped to her door—in a rather embarrassing manner, she might add—in bright yellow paper and bold letters. Flinching at the obvious disregard to her pride, Quinn tore it down and gave it a quick read.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Late Rent Notice<strong>

**Date (dd/mm/yyyy):** 10/05/2012

**Tenant's Name:** William Schuester

**Address of Rental Unit:** Apartment 34B

This notice is to inform you are behind on your rent payments, which is due on the **03/05/2012**. As of yet, you are 6 months behind on your rent payment, and thus would allow for us to lease the apartment out to other occupants who are interested.

According to the terms of our rental agreement, you are also required to pay a late rent charge of **$50**. The total amount due for this month (05/2012) is **$1,250**.

Concurrently, you are required to follow up on the rent of November (11/2011)–April (04/2012). The all-round total amount due for payment is **$8,750**.

Should you be unable to settle the above payment in one week (17/05/2012), we would require your assistance in evicting the premise in the given time frame. We appreciate your understanding and cooperation.

If you have any questions regarding this matter, you can contact me at (212) 427-22047.

Regards,

William Schuester

* * *

><p>It was just the thing she needed—not.<p>

_Fuck my life._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I've done my research! LOL! Okay, so I've been a good girl and Googled on apartment rents in Midtown South, and it might not be one hundred per cent accurate, but I suppose it's roughly there. I can't promise you that there'll be a Fabrevans interaction in the next chapter—even though I'm itching to write one—but hopefully this will set certain things in motion.

**IWantNiley3. 0:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter! Brittany was such a fun character because I just had so many lines for her, it was a difficult task limiting the right ones for her! Hope you'vve enjoyed this update!

**Fabrevansgleek:** Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it!

**FabrevansOTP:** LOL! I am so flattered that you've chosen to skip studying just to read my update! Thank you so much for spending your precious time reviewing as well! I truly appreciate it! I'm glad you liked Puck, and the small bit about the alcohol. Hehe! Oh, and Brittany was such a joy! I'm glad you liked her too! She's going to be an amazing comic relief in the story! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! We meet again! LOL! Thank you so much for dropping by and leaving reviews for both stories! I'm sure I've replied to you in WIME, and I'm really happy that you liked Brittany! She was so much fun to write!

**Mandorac:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story time and again! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter even though it wasn't very long. LOL! Brittany was such a pleasure to write because she provides for endless possibilities! I'm just aching to write the next Fabrevans interaction, and I'm hoping that it's soon because I can already imagine how fun it's going to be! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**17SomeOne:** Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! I really appreciate you reading and reviewing my story! Well, this story is somewhat inspired by my one of my favourite TV show called 'The Big Bang Theory'. Other than that, it's all in my head. I think I have too much time in my hands. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you find the douche Sam interesting. The first chapter was a blast to write because there were just so many things I want to put in and it's all so fast-paced! It's good to know that you like the story so far! Cheers!

**Quams:** Wow! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a flattering comment! Hope you find this update enjoyable!

**DeGleesi:** LOL! No worries at all! You have nothing to apologize for :D I'm glad you find the story fun to read because it's really fun to write! There is definitely more to Sam and Quinn hating each other, and yes, the moment where they fall for each other would be so sweet! It actually helps that my two stories are at two different ends of the stick. It means that there's a lesser chance of me getting confused and mixing the facts up. Jerk Sam is so much fun too! LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this update!


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Whee! I'm updating this before whisper in my Ear, because I just had to get this chapter out of my system. It was making me anxious and jittery, so I got working on it.

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 5**

Sleeping in the hallway was a bitch. His back was aching and his neck felt like he'd been laying it on a pile of bricks. Still, it was a small price to pay—albeit the unnecessary distress to his being—to save his ears and his sanity from the likes of Noah Puckerman and his girlfriend.

Pushing himself off the wall, Sam rubbed his tired eyes and lolled his head from side to side before glancing down at his wristwatch to check the time. It didn't matter anyway; there wasn't anything particularly important that he needed to do. Oh wait, he did, actually. The future-defining song that he had to compose with his fellow band mates was due in thirteen days.

Great.

His stomach rumbled to life, an indication that the combination of junk food and beer the night before was a terrible idea. He needed a shower and his dose of caffeine. The slight throbbing in his skull was starting to get incredibly annoying, amplifying his already foul mood; made even worse as he opened the door to the apartment to find Puck and Santana sucking each other's face off on the kitchen countertop.

"Shit, stop it!" he growled, storming in and heading straight for the bathroom, completely ignoring the burning smell of charred omelets. For all he cared, they might as well not even have bothered with cooking breakfast.

Peeling off his clothes, Sam turned on the water and shut his eyelids, allowing for the scalding hot droplets to massage his beaten muscles as he tried desperately not to think of what the two was—and had been—doing out in the common area.

The news had been a raging nightmare, and he was still hoping that it was something he could wake up from. Living in denial for a full three hours, his hopes had been cruelly crushed the instant he had stepped into the house and seen the many haphazardly-labeled boxes stacked up in the living room. Nonetheless, he refused to believe it was true until he took note of the Latina sitting on his La-Z-Boy—clad in a tank top and tiny booty shorts—eating his favorite box of cereals and watching the television like she owned the place. Sam was on the brink of weeping at the doorway, but he managed to deal with it like a man.

He locked himself up in his room.

Until all the moans and erotic cussing drove him insane, effectively chasing him out into the hallway again.

If that was how it would be from here on, Sam didn't think he'd be able to attain forty winks before he shriveled up and die of exhaustion. His brains needed the sufficient amount of rest for his creativity to manifest, so he'd decided that he was going to have a serious man-to-man talk with his buddy.

It wasn't that he felt betrayed—because he did—but knowing that a girl he barely spoke two words to was invading his sanctuary acted like an infestation to his comfort zone. In all honesty, Sam really thought that he could learn to live with it, but it clearly wouldn't hurt for the other party to exercise some restraint and respect. After all, he still did pay his share of the rent, and it wasn't fair that he had to spend his nights out in the cold corridor.

His muscles now relaxed and soft, he blindly felt around for the bottle of shampoo, his fingers closing around the nearest one on the holder. Squirting a generous amount into his palm, Sam kept his eyes closed while he lathered up his precious blonde mop. And then he realized something was wrong.

"What the fuck?" he spat out, glaring at the hygiene product. "Who the hell—"

Strawberry-scented organic shampoo with aloe vera extracts.

To get that repulsive flavorful smell out of his hair, Sam had to rinse it off four times as he cursed and swore the root of all his evils. The water was getting cold and he was starting to prune up by the time he was done, and he felt that his scalp was about to fall off. Strategically wrapping the towel around his waist, he cleared the steam on the mirror before scrambling to locate his razor, accidentally knocking over the basket of potpourri—that hadn't been there the last time he remembered—and spilling the contents all over the floor.

"Damn it!"

This day couldn't get any worse.

By the time he was fully dressed, the pressing need for a well-deserved cup of coffee had become all-consuming to the point of eruption. He could hear them giggling from his bedroom and didn't want to stick around for more. The one-on-one talk would have to wait till Puck was less occupied.

"Where are you going?" Sam heard his friend ask as he tried to leave.

Without even pausing to reply, he said, "I'm getting some groceries."

"Okay, can you help me get—"

The slamming of the door prevented Puck from finishing up with his request, and Sam couldn't help rolling his eyeballs. God, he loved his roommate, but Santana had to go, for the sake of his health.

Contrary to what he had told Puck, Sam made his way for Finn's apartment instead, sure that Rachel was probably already at rehearsals. Choosing to walk in spite of the scorching weather, it took him a good twenty minutes to get there. The usual morning rush was bustling—as it always did regardless of the time—but fuck it, he couldn't afford the cab again. Passing by the store at the corner, he decided that fine, he might as well pick up the essentials since he was already there.

Perhaps he should get a part-time job at night. That way, he could avoid bumping into the duo back in the apartment, and then maybe afford to get his own place to stay in; or better yet, share one with Rory. The Irish musician's solo-bedroom residence could use an upgrade.

Like any ordinary man, Sam went through the aisles in great detail, ensuring that he didn't miss anything because he'd hate to make another trip. Hunting for his cereal was a mandatory ritual from when he was a boy. It was always Cheerios or nothing.

And there was only a box left on the shelf.

His hand shot out to grab it just as someone else did, and he whipped his head down to glare at the petite figure standing next to him.

"You!"

"You!"

That blonde she-devil with the rose-tinted sunglasses was plaguing his mind, staring wide-eyed back at him in recognition and animosity. Undoubtedly, he had made quite an impression on her as well, for she wasn't releasing her deathly grip on his food. It took approximately five seconds to recover from the initial shock and repugnance of having the outmost misfortune to bump into her once again. One would think that New York City was big enough to evade such circumstances, but apparently he was wrong about that too.

"Are you going to let go of the box?" she demanded in that familiarly rude way of hers, giving the cereal a sharp tug.

He wasn't that easily swayed. "Only if you do."

Up close, in such proximity, he could finally have a good look at her fiery hazel-green cat-like eyes, shooting daggers up at him. The corner of his enlarged lips twitched upwards in his trademark smirk—the one that hadn't yet failed to bring girls to their knees. Impressively, her gaze didn't falter, and he admired her perseverance. Not many were able to resist his Southern ways.

"Do you think I'm that fucking dumb?"

"I'll answer that when we get to it," he retorted. "Now let go."

"No way! Why don't you just get another one?"

Sam was appalled that she would even ask. "Because it's my favorite and I must have it."

"Like you _must_ have everything else?" she snapped.

"Just let it go and we'll deal with this like mature adults."

"Why do I have to let go?" she stubbornly objected, her porcelain cheeks flushing a shade of crimson. "First of all, you cut _my_ line, and then you stole _my_ drink and _my_ taxi, and you didn't even say thank you or sorry and—"

He took a step closer, bringing their noses inches apart and efficiently cutting her off her annoying rant. Her brows furrowed for a second, confused as to his actions, and the victorious grin that spread across his face felt like a first place trophy. Inwardly debating if he ought to kiss her again, he suddenly found himself caught in the clear depths of her golden orbs as his heart sped up without plausible reasons; the box of cereal trapped between their bodies now forgotten.

"I can't stop thinking about you," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his chin.

He hadn't expected that at all.

_Holy shit._

Swallowing thickly, he found himself stuttering. "Erm…I—I—"

And then she was gone, ducking underneath his arm with the box of cereal, and escaping his clutches. _That little minx!_ Miffed that he was being played out by an incompetent weakling, Sam scowled at his stupidity, and started chasing her down the row of shelves. He refused to go down without a fight.

_Two can play the game, sweetheart._

It was ridiculous how they were behaving in a grocery store, where space was a huge constraint. She was leading him in circles, darting in and out of the aisles while he tried not to run into any of the other customers. Surprisingly, none of the staff members had bothered to stop their little play date, but he just reckoned they were waiting for them to stop before kicking them out of the shop. The chick was still holding his food captive, so Sam figured he needed an alternative approach.

He waited.

When the time was right, he pounced.

"Let go of it, you jerk!" she snarled.

"Not a chance," he grunted with the effort of struggling with her. For a girl, she was relatively strong, but he had her in his tight hold, his muscular arms wrapped around her torso with his hands plastered to the treasured box.

"What kind of a person are you?"

Sam was glad that he didn't need his food in mint condition because all the clawing and snatching was creating dents in the cardboard. Her hair was tickling his nose and through the hassle, he managed to take a whiff of her coconut-scented shampoo.

He hated it.

"Look, ma'am, I don't want to fight you but—" There was a sharp jab to his foot, where her kitten heel was stabbing through his sneaker. "Ow! Fuck! Why'd you do—"

And she was gone.

* * *

><p>She needed to get away from that psychopath.<p>

Spying one of those grand Broadway theatres up ahead, Quinn swiftly slipped into the imposing building, hoping it'll repel him enough to get him off her back. The lush maroon carpet greeted her in regal fashion, the essence of Old Hollywood still present in its interior décor of rich purple velvet and gold linings. Walls were dressed with fading wallpapers and posters of past successful musicals that had ever graced the stage.

_Wow._

As a performer all the same, she hadn't once set foot in this place. For shame, because it felt like what her dreams were made of, so she took it all in with child-like wonderment, spinning around to admire the minute details. It was exactly how she would've imagined it all to be and more.

A lady rushed past her, a bulk of chiffon, tulle and organza in her arms; ribbons trailing after as she entered through a small side door. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but Quinn was never one to shy away from an opportunity. Tiptoeing over, she reached for the elaborately-carved handle and timidly poked her head in.

The place was a flurry of activity as people scramble to get things done. Certain that nobody would notice her lurking where she shouldn't be, Quinn grabbed the nearest prop she could find—a multi-colored Styrofoam lollipop—and acted like she blended in. Wandering around, she realized that she was backstage, observing as people stitched up extravagant costumes and did the final touch-ups to the sets. She came upon the wings and couldn't resist peeking out at the vast deck, just as the actors were rehearsing a scene. Instantly, she found herself captivated by the performance, of how those people were so engaged in their characters, it was starting to overwhelm her in the best way possible.

"Hey, you," someone called out from over her shoulder, and for a moment she thought she was busted. "No touching of the curtains."

"Oh, I—I'm sorry," she said to the be-spectacled woman. "I didn't know—"

"Is that lollipop ready?"

Quinn blinked down at the thing she was holding in her hands. "Erm…I—I actually don't—"

"Never mind," the older female interrupted. "Just pass it to Rachel over there."

"Rachel?"

"Quinn? Quinn Fabray?"

The next thing she knew, she was hit by a five-foot-two whirlwind of black hair, wool sweater vest and pleated skirt, nearly tackling her to the ground in squeals of excitement. Recognizing the bundle of energy now wrapped around her, Quinn chuckled at the clichéd high school reunion with her once-_frenemy_, Rachel Berry.

"Oh, my God. I can't believe it's really you!" the brunette gushed, releasing the embrace and holding the blonde at arms length for a full inspection. "What a pleasant coincidence! Look how beautiful you are! What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were in New York? Are you involved in the production too?"

The girl seemed so hopeful; it would be terrible to break her heart like that, and made for an instant guilt-trip to be the bearer of bad news. "No, actually, I'm not," Quinn sheepishly told her. "I'm just a stowaway, and probably not allowed to be in here, but I was just passing by and I had to come look. Do you work here?"

Rachel nodded, proud of her achievements. "Yes, I do. Right after graduation, I—"

A guy ambled past, carrying a well-polished tuba, cutting right between the two ex-schoolmates and adequately interrupting Rachel before she could finish with her story.

"Why don't we go into the dressing room?" she suggested, taking Quinn's hand. "It'll be easier for us to talk in there."

As it turned out, it wasn't that much different. There were cast members cramped together in the small space, sorting their wardrobes out, or reading their lines, or warming up their vocal cords, and frankly, Quinn preferred being back where they had been originally. They squeezed between two people on the sofa, and it was getting rather stuffy and claustrophobic.

"So, Quinn, what brought you here?"

She snapped out of her reverie in time to catch the last couple of syllables. "I go to school here. I'm studying law."

They were practically shouting to be heard. "Are you in Columbia?"

_I wish._

"No, but I'm—"

"Rachel, we need you outside!"

There was no stopping in there at all, and it didn't take long for Quinn to figure out why Rachel enjoyed theatre so much.

"Fine, fine," Rachel yelled out, waving in acknowledgment. "Give me a second." Turning back to the blonde girl, she said, "why don't we catch up after this? I should end at around seven, if the director doesn't throw a hissy fit again. We could have dinner and then talk about us."

"I'm teaching till eight tonight, but why don't you come over to my studio and we can head out from there?" Quinn proposed.

"Wow! Look at you, Quinn Fabray. Chasing your dreams," Rachel swooned in that ever-so dramatic way of hers that Quinn remembered from their youthful days. "I'm so proud of you already! Where do you teach?"

"Footsteps School for Dance."

Rachel's reacting gasp almost startled the living daylights out of Quinn. "You're kidding!" she shrieked. "Shelby, my director, has a daughter—Beth—that goes there for regular classes."

As realization dawned upon her, Quinn's mouth hung open in bewilderment. "Shelby Corcoran is your production director?"

"Rachel! Let's go! Chop, chop!"

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" the actress impatiently informed her co-workers before giving Quinn's hand an apologetic squeeze. "I've got to go. I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, sure," Quinn replied with a dismissive wave. "Go ahead. I'm sorry to disturb you like this. I need to get going, anyways."

When she got to her feet, Rachel followed suit, and then proceeded to once again cocoon her in a tight bear hug. Without letting go, Quinn heard her sincerely murmur in her ear.

"It's really nice to see you again, Quinn."

* * *

><p>They found a Burger King joint somehow; it was a rather obtuse area, but considering they were both extremely tight on budget, greasy fast food would just have to do—even if it didn't make for the most ideal place to reminisce on old times.<p>

Quinn scorned at the basket of fried potatoes, measuring up the total amount of calories she probably needed to burn right after. Just because she was a dancer instructor didn't mean she was immune to the wraths of sluggishness and acne break-outs. She had worked hard to prevent that. No way was she going back to the dark ages of Lucy Caboosey.

"Oh, come on, Quinn," Rachel said, rolling her eyeballs. "You look fabulous. This won't kill you, I promise."

Even though they had spent the entire freshman and the first quarter of sophomore year hating each other—the reason now hazy to both ladies—Quinn was still amazed at how well Rachel actually knew her and never forgot about the smaller quirks. They exchanged comprehensive grins, sharing one of those rare moments that she had come to miss. Despite the vast technology in the century, the two best friends had somehow or another managed to lose all forms of contact, which was puzzling since they weren't even in separate countries. Right after graduation, it was as though they had completely fallen off from the face of the planet. Making new friends hadn't been a problem, of course—what, with eight million people in New York—but it sure didn't hurt to see a familiar face in the throngs of strangers.

"So, are you and Finn still together?"

"We're engaged!" Rachel blurted out giddily, thrusting her right hand out across the table to flaunt the glimmering rock sitting on her finger.

"Oh, my gosh. That's wonderful!" Quinn remarked, truly happy for the girl. "Congratulations! When's the big day? Is he living here with you?"

"We're sharing an apartment up at Chelsea," Rachel explained, twiddling with the plastic straw. "He's in a band right now—there are four of them—and they're actually pretty good. Aside from the occasional small gigs here and there, they're scouting for a manager to launch their careers. You should come watch."

Quinn cracked a smile, weighing the salt-laden not-so-French fries between her thumb and index finger. "That sounds great. I suppose it'll be nice to see that Frankenteen again. Does he play any instruments?"

"The drums."

"And to think he's so uncoordinated in high school."

Snickering, Rachel quipped. "Trust me, he still is." A beat later, she asked, "what about you, Quinn? How have you been?"

Quinn took a sip of soda before answering. "It's rough," she admitted with a sigh. "School is harder than I thought, and everybody's so competitive; it's really different from being back home."

"How'd you get into Footsteps?"

"I bumped into Mike—that Asian dude you saw earlier in the studio whom you thought was hot—the first week I arrived in New York," Quinn narrated as she wiped her palms with a serviette. "We took a jazz class together and got partnered up, and we just felt this instant connection. He asked if I could help him with his audition piece, so I did. After he got accepted into Tisch, he introduced me to Brittany—the blonde—and we had this crazy idea to set up a studio where kids can learn to dance."

"So teaching is your part-time job?"

Her response was to shrug her shoulders. "I suppose so. It doesn't pay much or anything, but I love teaching those kids." Just then, an idea sprung up in her head. "Hey, do you know of anybody looking for a roommate? My loft is a two-bedroom, and it's got this great view of Manhattan, but Lord knows I can't pay for the rent all on my own. Do you suppose any of your colleagues need a place?"

Rachel paused to think, one finger propped on her chin as a thoughtful pout played upon her lips. "I'm not sure, but I can help you ask around. Most of the cast and crew are Yankee natives, so they pretty much have their own place."

The disappointment was evident on the blonde's expression. "Damn."

"Why'd you get a loft?"

"Don't ask."

* * *

><p>"I can't take it anymore, Finn," Sam fumed, barging straight into his best friend's apartment—for the second time that day—without ever bothering to knock; fortunate enough not to catch anything inappropriate when he entered.<p>

Craning his neck around where he was seated on the couch, Finn quirked an eyebrow inquisitively back at him. With a quick peek over his shoulder, Sam spied the frozen screenshot of their favorite video game and knew that he hadn't interrupted anything important. Also, he had yet to hear the reprimanding tone of Rachel's voice, which eased him up a bit, knowing that she wasn't home yet.

"What is it this time?"

"I found Santana's bra and thong hanging at the back of the bathroom door," Sam growled, hopping over the furniture to plop down next to the dude. He picked up the free console that was lying on the side table, and hit a button to resume the game. "They're trying to torture me."

"With lingerie?" Finn snorted, his eyes peeled on the television.

"Well, it's not so gross until you find Puck's boxers over the showerhead."

Unsympathetically, Finn burst out in rude laughter, distracting himself from the mission at hand and successfully allowing his character to be shot by Sam's sniper rifle. Still not satisfied by the kill, he added in two more throws of the grenade and a hit of bazooka to seal the deal. Beneath the monotonous commentary on the victory, Finn was still in stitches. It was just downright obnoxious.

"Shut up," Sam groaned, tossing the object aside. "It was disgusting. I couldn't imagine—no, I don't want to even think about it."

"Hi, honey, I'm home!"

Straight out of a Brady Bunch episode, it never failed to amuse him just how Gone-With-the-Wind Rachel could be sometimes. Everything had a dramatic flare with her, and the entire world was her stage. Therefore, it didn't surprise him when he turned his head around and saw her hands up in the air as she flaunted a mega-watt smile. The second she saw him, though, her lips dropped into a curious frown.

"Hello there, Sam," she politely nodded in his direction. "You're here. Why are you here?"

"Hey beautiful," Finn grinned, hopping off the sofa to greet his fiancé with a quick peck on her cheek. "How was work?"

"Fine, thanks," Rachel said as she removed her pea coat. "What's Sam doing here? No offence, though, it's not that I don't like you, but don't you have a place of your own?"

Sam didn't want to regurgitate the unfortunate events to her, so he sighed and moodily slumped back down on the loveseat, like a little kid denied of candy. He could hear Finn snickering behind him, and knew that he wouldn't hear the end of this.

"Puck's girlfriend moved in last night."

Rachel seemed skeptical. "Puck has a girlfriend?"

"They go at it like bunnies every waking minute they have," Sam said, ticking the list off his fingers. "And then she changed the shampoo, left a basket of potpourri in the bathroom, and on top of that, they leave underwear lying around for me to trip over. It's driving me insane. I had to sleep in the hallway again last night."

"Why don't you just talk to Puck about it?" Rachel advised. "Let him know that the arrangement is bothering you."

"Believe me, Berry, I'm trying."

"Are you crashing here tonight?" she wanted to know.

He shook his head from side to side to tell her no—even though the prospect was tempting, and so much better than returning home to a couple of horndogs. "I just need to get away for a bit. I would've gone to Rory's but he's out for some Irish dancing thing."

"If they bother you so much, why don't you just move out?" Finn told him. "Find your own apartment."

"Oh! Guess who I bumped into today, sweetie," Rachel burbled excitedly, clapping her hands and doing tiny jumps. "You wouldn't guess it."

Finn rubbed the nape of his neck and headed back to join Sam on the sofa, the Jewish brunette skipping along to stand directly in front of the television, averting all the attention to her. Stumped for an answer, Finn simply shrugged in reply.

"Who?"

"Quinn Fabray!"

"Who's that?" Sam piped up with interest. "She sounds hot. Is she hot?"

To his right, Finn let out a low whistle. "Smoking. Like you wouldn't even believe it."

Clearing her throat, Rachel jolted her fiancé back to the present and fixed him with a pointed glare. Sam couldn't help chuckling at the ridiculous silent-stare war that they had going on, and figured he ought to diffuse the situation before one of them really blew up—his money was on Rachel—and the other made to sleep out in the living room.

"Alright, so what's the deal with this Quinn chick?"

"She's looking for a roommate."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** This is officially my favorite chapter to write! LOL! It took me a while because it is longer than any of my previous chapters for this story, and it all came to me in waves, that I had to finish this off first before I get cracking with my next chapter of Whisper in my Ear. So I cracked, and I just had to insert the Fabrevans scene in here because I thought it would be great for the characters and fuel their mutual hate for each other. Let me know what you guys think!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you love Mike and Quinn's friendship! At some point, I was a Fabang shipper, because I think that they have an unspoken understanding of one another, especially when Mike's dad didn't approve of his dancing, and I was a little disappointed that the writers of the show didn't explore that. Hehe!

**FabrevansOTP:** Awww….thank you! You always know the right words to say! Thank you so much once again for taking time off to read and review on my chapter! I'm glad that you love Quinn's friendship with Mike! I was once a Fabang shipper, and in some way that small friendship in the story satisfied my once-craving for it. It's always fun to bounce conversation amongst the four guys because they have such different personalities. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Written-in-hearts:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like where the story is heading so far. Do let me know what your thoughts are for this chapter! Cheers!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad that you like the pace of the story, and just like you, I wanted a Fabrevans scene, which was why I cracked and added one into this chapter. You can just imagine how much they hate each other now. LOL! Hopefully you've enjoyed this update! Let me know how you feel about it :D Cheers!

**Mandorac:** Hello! I know that WIME usually gets updated before this story, but I needed to get this one out of my system. LOL! Thank you so much for continually reading and reviewing my chapters! I truly appreciate all your time and effort! I love bouncing off dialogue between the guys because they have such different personalities; it's interesting to see them interact with each other. I'm glad you picked out the small fact about Mr. Schue! Hehe! Well, as you can tell, I cracked, and decided to write a Fabrevans interaction in this update because I really wanted to do it, and also because I couldn't resist my own temptations. Haha! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**17SomeOne:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! I couldn't write this chapter fast enough, and I kept scribbling stuff in my notebook at any chance I get whenever I'm not by my computer. Nonetheless, I hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I had writing it!

**Hrslovr101:** Hello! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I always reply to my reviewers because I'm really appreciative of the time that you guys have spent to comment and give me great encouragements! I'm glad that you're enjoying this story! It's been a pleasure to write it so far. Hehe! Well, just like you, I had an itch for a Fabrevans scene, which is why I wrote one in for this update. LOL! I'm also glad that you love the Fabang stuff. I was a shipper once, but it's all about Fabrevans now. LOL! Happy to hear from you! Let me know what you think of this update, yeah? Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **I know I spent some time with this, but it's relatively as long as the previous chapter, so brace yourselves. LOL!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 6**

_Damn it, damn it, damn it!_

She probably shouldn't be texting on her cellphone while hastily navigating the tricky streets of Manhattan, but it was important. For the first time in a long while, Quinn was lost in the big city, and she was due at a location ten minutes ago. Jostled and shoved by the sea of people, she struggled to keep hold of the severely outdated device in her tiny hands.

_Ah, crap._

Attaining reception on her mobile had always been a bitch—near to impossible, considering how it had been a gift for her seventeenth birthday—on top of everything else that was wrong with it. After all the shit that her phone had gone through—dropped from the second floor, nearly flushed down the toilet bowl, dunked in a mug of beer and countless others—it was probably one fall away from dying on her. Mike and Brittany had been bugging her to get an upgrade—something with a touch screen and 3G services—but it wasn't like she could even afford it. In fact, her apartment rents were enough to drain her of any spare change that she might've been able to use.

Besides, it still worked.

With a quick glimpse up at the crosswalk street signs, she tried to determine her location and then scrambled to type them up for Mike so that he would be able to give her the appropriate directions. Time was fast running out, and if she didn't haul her pretty ass over right that instant, she might lose that internship.

And she couldn't afford that either.

This job was way too important for her to screw up. It could make or break her career.

_Come on, come on._

The polyphonic beep and illumination on the 2-inch screen signaled an incoming text message. Before she had the chance of reading it, though, she found herself slamming into a firm figure.

_What the fuck?_

Narrowly avoiding a nasty spill of electronic parts, Quinn ended up juggling the phone in both hands to save her the trouble of paying for a new one. After ensuring that the object was still intact, she trailed her narrowed eyes up in time as the culprit spun around to face her. Already pissed at the entire world that morning, she got even more agitated when her gaze landed on a set of well-toned chest. Tilting her chin skywards, she was met with a pair of familiar, oversized, salamander lips and striking olive-green eyes. Under the scorching sun, his blonde hair appeared paler than usual.

"You again?" she spat out in annoyance. "Are you fucking stalking me?"

He scoffed in that obnoxious way of his and offered a short, sarcastic laugh. "You wish."

"What were you doing standing in my way?"

"What does it matter to you?" he retorted.

She rolled her golden orbs at him, unable to believe how such a person even existed in this realm. During the unfavorable encounter, Quinn had forgotten that the only thing worse than scurrying through a sea of city-goers, was being petite and halting in the middle of people-traffic.

"You were in my way, and you almost—"

Interrupted by an unsuspecting jab to her shoulder, the phone was knocked out of her hand, where it sailed in the air and landed on the concrete pathway. It slid for a good three seconds until a red stiletto kicked it to the edge of the pavement, the device now balancing precariously between the curb and the road.

"Shit!"

Cutting across the million bodies in her way, Quinn chased after the cellular, praying that it had survived the untimely descent. She would absolutely hate to replace it since she had about a line of important contacts in that useless thing. A horrendous crack grazed across the plastic surface, and the missing pixels on the display rendered anything on it unreadable.

"Is it still alive?"

His deep, silky voice was starting to grate on her nerves, and it irked her why he couldn't just leave her the hell alone. Heaving a sigh, she whirled around to reveal the state of her only—sort of—prized possession. Ignorant to her distress, he took one look and snickered.

"Why are you laughing?" she asked with a scowl. "This is all _your_ fault."

As if he couldn't get any more offensive, the guy flat-out laughed in her face. "It wasn't me, and you know it. Do yourself a favor, toss that piece of scrap into the drain and take a leap into the twenty-first century."

The nerve.

"I don't know what you people learn in Utah, or wherever you're from down in the South, but where _I'm_ from, people have manners," she shot back heatedly, having enough of his sarcasm.

Amidst the bustling that was still going on around them, the blonde teen heartthrob look-a-like brought his nose down to level with hers. "Just out of curiosity, where _are_ you from?"

Instead of shrinking back like a pathetic little girl, Quinn took on his challenge and stared him down with equal passion. Frankly, she didn't know why she even bothered with this imbecile. "That's none of your fucking business."

Unable to fish out for a witty comeback, he snatched the phone out of her hand and childishly held it above her head. Totally caught off guard, Quinn fumed at her carelessness. Perhaps she ought to step on his foot again. As though reading her thoughts, he hopped back a few paces; out of reach to her vertically-challenged self.

"Give it back," she demanded.

"You took the last box of my Cheerios."

She refrained herself from rolling her eyeballs again. "Look, I don't have time for this, alright? I'm late for an interview and—"

"It's only fair that I take something of yours," he taunted, waving the phone around to dodge her fast-whipping hands as she tried to make a grab for it.

"Fine," she huffed, scavenging through her backpack for anything that might be of no value to her. "Here's a granola bar."

"I'm afraid that's not going to cut it," he faux-regretfully told her. "I'd much rather have this piece of junk. I'll probably get a few bucks if I sell it."

Not wanting to give him such satisfaction, she lunged forward and threw herself at his warm, chiseled abs. If he wanted a repeat of their episode in the grocery store, then by all means she was going to give it to him; serve it cold in a dish full of hot sauce. Limbs flew in every possible direction, her fingers clawing onto more flannel. Tiptoeing didn't pose a problem; she was a dancer after all, but damn he was strong.

Her front, now pressed up tight against his, created a friction that sent a delicious shiver running up her spine, momentarily distracting her from the initial mission until she heard him emit a startling sound somewhere between a growl and a groan.

And then she felt it.

That hard bulge probing above her thigh.

Mortified, she glanced up into his dilated pupils, gasping when she noticed the telltale sign of an aroused man. Suddenly, she was aware of his grip on her waist, and at the risk of sounding like a clichéd boy-meets-girl movie, Quinn felt the boisterous noise of the metropolitan fade away. Fearful that he was going to attempt to kiss her again—and terrified by what it might mean this time round—she did the only thing that crossed her mind.

She kneed him in the junk.

Utterly blindsided, he stumbled backwards, grimacing in pain; but all she could focus on was her beloved cellphone as it slipped out of his grasp and plummeted into the dark pits of a nearby gutter.

"Son of a—"

But he was already gone.

* * *

><p>That girl was going to be the death of him; he just knew it.<p>

_Bitch._

Bent forward, Sam clutched onto his hips to catch his breath. How the fuck was he so out of shape? He'd been the star quarterback in high school, and he still worked out regularly, so why the hell was his heart racing as though he'd just completed a damn marathon?

Oh, right, because his nuts just received a rude awakening.

Balls throbbing from the brutal impact, Sam took a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching him before reaching down to give his aching crotch a slow rub. Wincing at the dull pain, his mind flew to that blonde girl as he cursed the life out of that small, lithe body.

_Jesus, that felt like a bomb just exploded in there._

Leaning against the red brick wall, he glanced down at the dead end of an alley when a back door sprung open with a noisy clunking of metal. Sam automatically pulled his hand away from his crotch in time as a burly dude with a well-rounded beer belly stumbled out, hauling a massive bag of trash; so full that it ended up stuck in the small opening.

"Damn, piece of shit!"

Sam figured he could use a hand.

He cleared his throat. "Need some help?" he asked, already making his way over.

"Yeah, that would be great," the man—who appeared to be around his mid-forties, scruffy with circular-rimmed glasses and a hippie-esque tie-dye shirt—replied gruffly, short-winded from the feat.

Wriggling the bag through the doorway, Sam couldn't help but notice the clinking sounds of ceramic and glass as he helped the guy lug it over to the rubbish dump. A rat skittered past his feet and disappeared into a hole at a corner, and all of a sudden he remembered his fear of dodgy places. Nervously, he wiped his sweaty palms against the material of his denim jeans.

"Thanks, son," the older male said, patting Sam's back in gratitude. "Couldn't have done it without you."

"My pleasure."

"I'm Burt Hummel," he introduced, extending his hand out.

"Sam Evans."

"I had to get rid of all the broken stuff," he proceeded to explain, his New Jersey accent showing through. "Just fired one of my waitresses because she keeps dropping the plates and the glasses, and I ain't got the budget to keep getting new ones. It's a tough business, you know."

"Do you own a restaurant?"

Burt shrugged his shoulders and snorted. "I wish," he chuckled good-naturedly. "No, I have a book café, which I should get back to before someone decides to come in and steal something again."

Sam followed him in and was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by shelves of literary materials instead of a greasy kitchen. Though relatively quiet, the first thing he noticed was the faint music playing in the background and the extensive amount of beanbag chairs that littered the brightly carpeted floor. Small odd-shaped tables were scattered about at random, situated amongst the field of cushions as a lone microphone stood on a raised platform that also played host to a stool and a myriad of instruments.

"Would you like anything? Coffee? A scone?" Burt called out from behind the counter, tying a knot on his navy blue apron.

"No, thanks," Sam politely refused, simply because he couldn't afford the luxury. His guitar needed a new bass string for the mini gig that night, and the apartment could use an overdose of sanitizer as well. He had yet to clean the kitchen counter. "So, do you run this place by yourself?"

"I have my wife with me. She's out to get more milk. My son, Kurt, comes in on the weekends, though. He's the one who came up with the poetry reading and open mike sessions."

It was interesting, to say the least. There weren't many cafés—at least not the ones he was aware of—that allowed for the showcase of budding talents, and Sam was sure his band could use that advantage to do a test drive on their songs. Honest feedback from an audience would be of great help to their progress as musicians.

Watching as the other man multi-tasked between drying some plates with a dishcloth and having a conversation, Sam found a stool and took a seat. "Does it get crowded in here?"

"Pretty much," Burt nodded. "There's a performing arts academy nearby, and another design school a few blocks away, so students usually flock in some time after four to hang out or work on their stuff."

The gears in his head were shifting like clockwork. "How do you handle it all?"

Done with the dishes, Burt moved from behind the cash register to join Sam on an empty facing stool. Leaning his elbows on the tabletop, he heaved a heavy sigh. "It's tough acquiring help these days. Even though it's quiet in the daytime, it would be nice to have an extra hand in the kitchen for when the dinner rush gets crazy. Blaine comes in after his class ends, but his schedule's always so uncertain. I just fired Lauren this morning and—"

"I'll do it," he jumped in. "Let me work for you."

Burt was more than skeptical at his proposition. "How old are you, Sam?"

"Twenty-one."

"You'll be paid minimum wage, you know that, right?"

Without hesitating, he answered, "yes, sir."

Appreciating the humor, Burt cracked a smirk, and then took a moment to contemplate on his decision as Sam noted the time on the antique wall clock. He was in no hurry to return to his apartment, and he knew that Santana had already left for work, presenting him with the perfect opportunity to approach Puck with the nagging subject.

"And you're okay with that?"

"I just need to get away from my roommate and his girlfriend."

Burt understood his predicament.

"Congratulations, you're hired."

* * *

><p>Rachel had left a rather long and elaborate message on the studio's answering machine—because Quinn's landline had long been disconnected—it was almost embarrassing to play it back in front her two co-founders.<p>

"Hi, Quinn! Sorry to bother you at work. I've tried calling you on your cellphone but I kept getting a dial tone," the brunette's chirpy, theatrical voice filled the reception area; raining glitter and balloons over the room. "I think you need to have a word with your service provider about that."

Behind the computer, Mike quirked an eyebrow in amusement and blatantly snickered at the inside joke of the day, but she didn't want to be reminded of that awful catastrophe again. Frowning from where she sat on the countertop, Quinn leaned over and gave the back of his head a good slap.

"Anyway, I'm checking to see what you were doing tonight, because Finn's band is playing at a bar down town. I'm not going to lie, it probably won't be as good as you think, but he's excited to meet you. No pressure or anything because I know you have such a busy schedule—"

He snorted; a cross between a grunt and a choke, to which she reciprocated with an icy glare. That motherfucking asshole. Just because she wasn't a party animal didn't mean she was a prude.

"So it'll be absolutely amazing if you can make it. Do give me a shout, or text me or whatever, alright? Okay, so I know that I'm hogging the line, and I'll stop now, but just remember to give me a heads up. You can bring Mike and Brittany along if you want to, so I expect you to be there, Quinnie. Bye!"

_No, she did not just do that._

"Quinnie?"

"If you treasure your balls, Chang, I suggest you zip it," she growled menacingly before gracefully hopping off onto her feet. Stalking towards the studio, she picked up her MP3 player and began scrolling through her playlist for a song that she could use later for class.

Perhaps something angsty; it should suit her just fine.

Not only did she not get the internship, she also needed to hunt for another one to fulfill her course requirement credits. Without an acclaimed law firm to act as a backing for her career, she might as well be selling pot on the streets with the hobos and the drunkards.

Her thoughts wandered back to Mr. Fish Lips and his uncanny habit of ruining everything for her; like a walking, plaguing jinx that wouldn't go away unless she burned him alive. The vivid image shocked her somewhat, considering she wasn't much of a sadist, and God save her for she was slowly losing her sanity.

She plugged the device into the mixer, allowing for the music to blare out of the speakers in riffs of electric guitar and fast drumming beats before beautiful lyrics started pouring out in gospel layers. So white metal was kind of her favorite, so what?

"Skillet? Really?"

Through the reflection in the mirrors, Quinn noticed Mike leaning against the doorframe, his arms casually crossed over his chest, observing as she proceeded with her routinely warm-ups. Rolling her hazel eyes, she chose to ignore his comment. Too bad it didn't work its purpose.

"So, are you going?"

"What are you referring to, exactly?"

"The gig?" He stepped into the studio and positioned himself directly behind her, placing his hands on the low ridge of her hips as she stretched her legs out on either side.

Straightening her spine, Quinn lowered her torso towards the uneven parquet floor. "I'll think about it," she mumbled in reply, relaxing her muscles when Mike began to add more pressure.

"Quinn Fabray, you need to get a life."

"Says he who does nothing but watch DVDs all night," she retorted.

"Look, all I'm saying, is that you have to get out more often," he went on. "Take a load off and let loose. You're too uptight."

His weight prevented her from sitting up to shoot another deathly glare at his direction, but she more than made up for it with a jab to his ribs. "I am not."

"Yes, you are. I love you, but—"

"Oh, God, not again."

Brittany's voice averted their attention towards the hallway, where she stood poking her head in. "You guys, we have children coming in. That's just obscene."

Trust her to be the voice of reason at the most unforeseen time.

"Brit, do you think Quinn's uptight?" Mike asked the other blonde as he moved away.

_Damn bastard._

Quinn wasn't sure where he was going with this, but she sure as hell didn't like it. To Brittany's credit, she actually gave the topic some thought and consideration before jumping to a conclusion.

"Yes."

_Bitch._

* * *

><p>"Hey, man, listen, I need to talk to you."<p>

Spitting the pencil out from his lips, Puck placed his guitar pick down on the coffee table and turned around to face his housemate. "Cool, what's up?"

He'd replayed this conversation a million times in his head; sourcing for the best way to drop the bomb, but he reckoned he was a dude, and he was rather shit at confrontations. Therefore, he opted for the manly approach. "Look, this roommate thing with Santana, I don't think it's going to work out for us—"

"I completely agree."

Of course, he hadn't expected that. Out of the many scenarios he'd painted beforehand, this one came in at the bottom of the food chain, directly below the part where Puck would tell him to grow a pair and fuck off—or better yet, get himself laid. Blinking, because it was getting weird, Sam cleared his throat. "You do?"

"Yeah, I just didn't know how to break it to you, but I'm glad you feel the same way." He paused to run his hand over the Mohawk; like a vulnerable schoolboy, and he let out a round of nervous laughter. "It's just, Santana is sort of like, my first real relationship, and I want to make it work with her. I mean, I think I might be in love with her, dude."

"You're kidding me."

"I don't shit around with things like that, and you know it."

He was dead serious, and it didn't occur very often.

"So what's going to happen?" Sam was almost too afraid to ask.

Shrugging his shoulders, Puck said, "I don't know. I think it's too early to propose to her, you know, that's just lame, but I'm glad you understand my situation. I really appreciate it, Sam. Tell you what, when you've found a place for yourself, I'll help you move in."

He would think it was obligatory, but—

_What?_

"What are you talking about? I'm not moving out. Your girlfriend's got to go."

"Not going to happen, Evans."

Sam scrunched his forehead in confusion. "But you just said you understood the situation."

"Santana tells me that you're making her uncomfortable," Puck clarified. "It's sort of hard to do anything without worrying if it'll offend you, you know—"

"It's called being considerate, Puckerman," Sam snapped. "Maybe if you two stop going at it every time I step into the room, it might be more pleasant. All I'm asking is for you to tone down on the sex a little. Do it when I'm not around or something."

"But Santana likes it loud."

"Just don't—no," Sam sputtered; raising one finger to stop him from providing any further unwanted information. "I don't want to know about it. Why don't you maniacs make a ruckus somewhere else? I live here, and I pay my share of the rent, so the least you can do for me is shut her up. Here's a suggestion: use a belt."

"You have some weird kinky shit going on."

"I'm fucking serious, Puck. It's either she mutes her volume, or I go."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And…clear! LOL! That was another fun one to write! Thoroughly enjoyed myself with it, too! At the risk of sounding self-absorbed, my favorite line is actually 'use a belt'. Haha! A shout out to the band 'Skillet', though I have to connection whatsoever to them, they rock some seriously good songs. Do check them out. In case you were wondering, the song that I had running during the scene with Quinn and Mike in the studio is called 'Awake and Alive'. And can you imagine a hippie Burt Hummel? LOL!

**VoteFabray4PromQueen:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! LOL! I'm glad you loved the last line! Sam and Quinn meet again, in another unfortunate circumstance, but believe me; I built that scene up for a reason. It'll come much later, I promise. You can bet they'll finally be introduced in the next chapter. There's no question in that, but I'm curious to know how they'll react to it :P Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Mandorac:** Hello there! Thank you, as always, for your time and dedication in reading and reviewing my updates! You rock! I'm glad you loved the previous chapter with the scene in the grocery store. It was so fun to write that bit! I know what you mean! It's not a question anymore if they'll be introduced in the next scene, but rather how they'll react to it! I'm excited! I'll probably get cracking on it straight away (even though I have Whisper in my Ear pending in my list). Let me know how you feel about this chapter! Cheers!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you enjoyed their hatred for each other! Those scenes are the most fun to write—maybe because it's hilarious in my head—especially when Quinn stomped on Sam's foot. LOL! I know that the plot is not a question, and it's no surprise that they'll definitely meet in the next chapter, but it'll be interesting to see how they'll react to it, yeah? Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Written-in-hearts:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you loved it! I can tell you that you'll probably find the next chapter entertaining, because they'll obviously find out about each other, so yay! I'm looking forward to writing that bit! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Gleeothfriends90210cccjsAMD:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Finn is such a dork, isn't he? But he's lovely, and it's great because it adds layers to the group. You have assumed right. Sam and Quinn will be formerly introduced in the next chapter. That's for sure. It's not a secret, really. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**FabrevansOTP:** Hi there! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you loved it! I was thinking of stuff that would irritate the crap out of a guy, and I came up with a few girly things, and what better way to do it then in a bathroom? That's where it starts, doesn't it? LOL! I'm ecstatic that you've enjoyed the scene in the grocery store. That was a blast! I'd like to think that girls always have the upper hand when it came to sexuality, so I don't doubt that a pretty girl like Quinn could bring a man like Sam down to his knees in a mere seconds. This chapter would make Quinn and Sam despise each other more, but I'd like to think that their hate is only on the surface, so it doesn't really hurt anybody emotionally. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you think. Always appreciated!

**Quamlover66:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad that you like the story so far. I'd love to get to the nice part as well, but the hate has got to build somewhere, even if it's just on the surface, so don't worry. There'll be plenty of nice coming up :P

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! As always, thank you so much for reading and leaving wonderful comments! I appreciate your countless use of 'O' and it never fails to make me smile!

**Quams:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! The fun does begin—okay, maybe in the next chapter, I think—but we do see a Sam/Quinn (a rather important one, I suppose) interaction in this update. Hopefully you still like it, though! :D

**17SomeOne:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked the story so far! I know they have yet to be introduced, but it'll come up in the next chapter, I swear!

**DeGleesi:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you like how the plot develops between the characters! LOL! The bit with the Cheerios was my favorite to write! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Ipizzippy:** Hello! It's always nice to get new readers. Thank you for leaving a wonderful review! I'm glad that you like where the story is heading! Would like to hear more from you :D Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I think I took long enough with this one, but I had the second part redone twice till I was finally satisfied. LOL!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 7**

Quinn would like to perceive herself as a young woman of great independence and adaptability. After she had single-handedly hauled her ass out into the city, she thought she deserved more credit. Yet, words couldn't even begin to describe how uncomfortable the situation was.

Squeezed up to a man with a terrible case of body odor and extremely bad breath—one even the booze and smoke couldn't conceal—she painstakingly inched her way towards the haven of the bar.

That's it; she needed a drink.

Pronto.

If there were one thing that could help her through the impending night, it would be on the state of an inebriated mind. Dodgy, shady establishments like this one functioned better as a homeless shack catered for the alcoholic and the unambitious. An abandoned subway right smack in the middle of grimy Brooklyn was so not her idea of a good time.

_Who the fuck even owns this place?_

The bartender skidded over the instant she perched down on the stool—something rather uncommon considering the ones in the Upper East Side tended to act like such snobs—and flashed her a charming, flirtatious grin. It had to be the skimpy piece of cloth Brittany deemed as a dress; so bloody short, Quinn was able to feel the breeze up her butt crack.

"What would you like, sweet thing?"

_Oh, God, he's doing that creepy eyebrow thing._

"A shot of vodka."

He could've been less obvious with his temporal shock, though she couldn't say that she was insulted. She was sure he hadn't expected that at all, because Quinn Fabray always settled for a quaint and dainty fruit margarita.

Well, not tonight.

She downed her drink in a single gulp, cringing at the burning sensation as the liquid ran down her throat. Damn, where was the buzz she was aiming for? Slamming the shot glass down on the chipped countertop, she demanded in her bossiest tone, "hit me."

Amused, the bartender poured another round. The second one barely touched her lips when an utterly enthusiastic figure of Rachel Berry sidled up to her side in all theatrical glory, effectively tipping the alcohol all over the back of Quinn's hand.

_Great. Just great._

"Quinn!" she squealed in the blonde's ear, like a ten-year-old high on prosaic in Disneyland. "You made it!"

It was just like senior year all over again, and for the life of her, she couldn't forget Little Miss Glitter Drunk. Just as well, Rachel was kind of a closet hippie, and Quinn had spent the majority of their wild party days as the brunette's designated driver—especially when Finn would flounder off with the jocks to go terrorize some lone and gullible freshmen. Why was she friends with these people, again? High school seemed like a long time now, but her first taste of weed was still lingering bitterly on her tongue.

Crazy shit.

"You look hot!" Rachel commented with a giggle. "Come and meet Finn. He's dying to see you again." And then her face turned stone serious before she added, "but he's off limits."

Quinn reckoned it didn't hurt to humor her some. "Got it," she replied with a nod.

Being dragged across to the other end of the room, nudging past the sea of tipsy bodies, they passed by Mike and Brittany on the way. It wasn't difficult to isolate the duo—the cypher circle at the center of the dance floor was apparent enough—but Rachel's tight grip on her fingers meant that Quinn couldn't stop to let them know where she would be.

Oh, well. She'd kill them later.

"Quinn!"

What was it with her friends shrieking in her face?

Before she knew it, Finn Hudson was having her trapped in a suffocating bear hug, wrapping his thick arms around her petite form as he squished her cheek into his broad—and rather damp—chest. Recoiling at the grossed-out feeling, Quinn made sure to have as little closed contact as possible.

"Hi, Finn," she attempted to sound chirpy while prying herself from his frame. "It's good to see you again."

"Ditto, Fabray," he burbled, holding her at arms length to non-discreetly appreciate her appearance, raking his eyes from top to bottom, his cheeks flushed from the intoxication. "Damn, you're on fire!"

Drunk before a performance.

_Right, exactly like high school._

Rachel interrupted his blatant ogling with the clearing of her throat, and all Quinn wanted to do was hide inside a potato sack. Instead, she moved to shield herself behind her good friend's equally tiny being—away from his semi-incestuous drooling—not wanting to deal with Finn at his most perverted. Seriously, though, the dude ought to be banned from any forms of alcohol; it was always disturbing.

"So, Rachel told me you were playing with your band, tonight?"

"Not the way I want it," he said with a suggestive wink.

Good Lord.

This time, his unnecessarily lewd remark landed him with a sharp slap to the back of his head from his irritated fiancé, sparking an entire round of a lover's banter. Perhaps if Quinn quietly slinked away, nobody would notice. She didn't know why she allowed Brittany and Mike to talk her into doing this, but it was definitely the last time.

Motherfucker, she was a prude.

"Where's Sam?"

Upon hearing an unfamiliar name, Quinn pulled herself back into the conversation to find Finn craning his neck as he surveyed the crowd—not that he needed to, really; the guy was a tower on his own—for someone in particular. Unless the subject was an extremely tall person, Quinn doubted he'd have much success. The dim lighting and annoying-as-heck strobe lights—it was a bar, for goodness sakes—made for an impossible visual reference.

"Who's Sam?"

"Wait, didn't I tell you?" Rachel asked.

"Tell me what?"

A huge smile spread across the brunette's face, a hint of pride in her gleefully glimmering eyes. "I've found the perfect roommate for you!" she announced.

Perplexed, Quinn furrowed her brows. "Sam had better be short for Samantha, Rachel."

"He's in the band with Finn," Rachel went on to explain in her bubbly fashion, completely ignoring the subtle warning. "Sam Evans, he plays the guitar, and he just got unofficially kicked out of his apartment because Santana moved in with Puck."

Who were all these people she was speaking of?

"A 'he'? You expect me to live with a guy?"

"Don't worry, Sam's harmless," Finn chirped in, draping his meaty arm over Rachel's tiny shoulders. "A little high-strung for his own good, but he's cool."

Whatever he'd just uttered, she heard none of it. "Couldn't you have fixed me up with a girl?"

"Just give him a chance, Quinn, I promise—"

"I think I see him," Finn interrupted, nodding towards a certain direction. In a rendition of a movie character, he excused himself. "I'll be back."

With him out of earshot, Quinn turned to glare at her friend. "Rachel…"

Eyes wide with faux innocence, Rachel reached for a stray glass of beer on one of the tables and wordlessly chugged it down, hiding her sheepish self behind her drink. Sighing, Quinn spun around to return to the bar.

She needed another shot.

* * *

><p>"Sam! Just the person I was looking for!"<p>

Fucking great. Why couldn't Finn have waited till he was done taking a piss? Weirdness overload, Sam definitely preferred doing his business in private without the means of his band mate hovering about behind him. He knew he should've used the cubicles instead. Groaning, because it wasn't going to do, he muttered a rather colorful profanity and started to zip up.

"Your timing is screwed up, Finn."

"Quinn's here."

Sam paused in mid-wash, his hands encompassed in foam—hygiene was kind of a crucial thing for him, no matter how much of a slob he could be at times—and glanced at the dude through the reflection in the mirror. Smirking in that cocky all-knowing way—which Finn totally stole from him—the drummer folded his arms across his chest and clumsily leaned against the bathroom tiles. Alcohol always did rubbish to his equilibrium.

"Okay."

How else was he supposed to respond to that?

"Ready to meet her?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance. "I don't know, man. What if she's not as smoking hot as you said?"

"You're so fucking shallow," Finn scoffed. "I'll see you outside."

Except, he was nowhere to be found. Officially peeved, Sam slinked back to the dance floor in hopes to locate a familiar face. The nimrod had probably wandered off—being how Finn had such a short attention span and constantly resembled a child when somewhat plastered—to entertain his fiancé or another.

Taking a quick detour to the bar, Sam reckoned he could use another doze of booze before their performance. They were going up in a few, and a mug of beer usually helped calm his nerves. Perhaps it was a good thing that they weren't actually on tour or anything, because he'd probably end up as a raging alcoholic. He also didn't have the tolerance level of Noah Puckerman, and therefore, the risk of creating a complete fool of himself on stage was something he wanted to avoid.

Heineken it was, then.

Sliding some cash across the countertop, Sam grabbed his drink and headed towards the stage, trusting himself with the task to courier his cargo safely through the mass of awkwardly-moving bodies—save for those two pros at the heart of it all. Beer was already starting to trail down his wrist and his journey entailed dodging a group of wasted college students who were trying to do the electric slide.

"Hey, watch where you're—"

"Whoa…"

"Damn it!"

Just like that, his brand new shirt, white as snow—and not his cheapest purchase either—had a nasty stain glaring back at him in an ugly shade and pattern. He couldn't believe it; was he a walking curse magnet of some sort? Shit happened, but it had a specific preference to his person.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry—you!"

At the sound of her voice—a constant haunting in his ears, ringing like hell's bells—Sam abandoned all attempts at salvaging his top and jerked his head upwards to meet her stunning hazel eyes. How was it even possible that of all the chances and places, the odds would choose to bring them back together? Someone up in the heavens was probably looking down at them, laughing at the big, fat joke. Why else would he be facing the she-demon for the fourth time that week?

"The fuck—"

"Stop following me, you creep!" she snapped, and all of a sudden, Sam found her temper intriguing.

Or maybe it was that dress. It gave everything away.

Had she always been that fucking gorgeous?

Blaming the momentary lapse on temporary insanity—or bad lighting—Sam shook out of his daze to once again remind himself what a royal pain-in-the-ass that blonde fox really was. She stood, annoyed and unimpressed, with one hand planted on her hip, visually shooting daggers through his skull.

"Look, if you're one of the groupies, just say so, alright," he told her, the amusement coated in every word. "I'm fine with it. In fact, I'm flattered that a—"

"You're such a self-absorbed bastard," she spat out. "Ever since I met you, nothing has ever worked out right, so why don't you just leave me alone?"

Oh, no, he wasn't going to let her weasel out of this one.

"Hey, this is an expensive shirt," he lashed out, jabbing a finger to his chest. "And this stain ain't going to clean itself. I demand a compensation."

She took one uninterested look at it and snorted in a shockingly un-lady-like manner. "I hate to break it to you, but that beer is yours. Ergo, it's not my fault."

Did she just say 'ergo'?

"You bumped into me."

"Not on purpose," she shot back. "I was minding my own business. Couldn't you have walked another route?"

This chick was relentless, but Sam wasn't going to back down—not just yet. "I'm sorry, I thought this is a free country."

"Well then, I suppose it's in my free rights when I do this."

Snatching the half-empty mug of Heineken from his hand, she doused what was left of the remains over the obvious splash-spot. Mortified and unable to react, he watched with his mouth hung open as the liquid spread to conquer an even bigger area. Satisfied with her work, the female terrorist—he was going to resort to that now—admired the damage and grinned in triumph. Her biggest mistake, though, was opting to return the glass back to him.

She was so tiny, and with a sharp tug, he easily had her wrapped in one arm, bringing her flushed up against his hard front. Beautiful golden orbs stared in bewilderment back at him, the sound of her startled gasp drowned out by the loud music, but no matter how perfectly her body molded, Sam couldn't ignore the way he absolutely loathed this breath-taking being. Fuck it; he was going to finish what he'd started in the grocery store.

Yet to protest, Sam presented her with one last smirk. "You're going to pay for that," he husked, languidly bridging the gap between their noses.

Vodka, huh? Big girl.

"Oh, there you are!"

And then there's Rachel.

"Rachel!"

"Wait, you know her?" he addressed the question to the blonde demon.

"You know him?" she directed her own query to the tipsy brunette.

"You two know each other?" Rachel completed the three-way interrogating session.

Swell.

"How do you know him?"

"How do you know her?"

"How do you two know each other?"

The pregnant pause that followed turned awkward real fast. Exchanging silent glances, they each took a moment to process the situation, though the final explanation was still kept within the aspiring Broadway actress, who seemed to immediately sober up, and was flashing them a mega-watt smile that stretched all the way to China.

"Well, Quinn, meet Sam Evans. Sam, this is Quinn Fabray."

"You're kidding me, right?" the other girl deadpanned.

Cheerfully—oblivious to the tension radiating between the two sworn enemies—Rachel shook her head. "You told me you needed a housemate, and he just got kicked out by his, so it's all a win/win thing."

A win/win thing?

"No, this is not—"

"Sam!" Puckerman barged into the triangle, slapping Sam square on his back. "Dude, where have you been? We're up in five. Let's go!" To Rachel, he said, "Finn is grinding up the mike stand. Can you give him some milk to sedate him? We've already had an episode with him drunk on stage, and it wasn't pretty."

And then the Mohawk guitarist noticed Quinn.

"Hey, P.Y.T," he leered, because seriously, the dude could never help himself. "I'm Puck."

His charm barely fazed her. Quirking an eyebrow, Quinn said, "the roommate with the girlfriend?"

"Erm…yes?"

This night couldn't get any better—or worse—than this.

"Well, you can tell her to suck it because I'm not letting this conceited ass live with me," she snarled scornfully, as though the idea repulsed her to no end, and Sam couldn't have been more insulted in his entire life.

Through personal appeal, she'd judged him so shortly, but what made her think she was so superior, anyway? "Oh, please," Sam rolled his eyeballs. "Like I want to live with an uptight bitch. I wouldn't last an hour in the same room as you."

"I wouldn't last a minute within a mile radius of your egotistical head," Quinn countered, like a back-and-forth of a tennis match. "I'll bet you're one of those guys who leave their underwear lying around in the kitchen."

"Actually, that's me," Puck interjected guiltily.

"I'll bet you're one of those girls who label their silverware."

It was Rachel who spoke up this time. "That's me."

"I'll bet you're one of those guys who keeps leftover pizza in the fridge for a week and still eats it."

Kids, they were simply a couple of kids.

_Just shoot me with a gun right now._

With every burning wisecrack, the flaring of his temper became a bit more difficult to contain. Ignoring his infuriation was futile, and unbeknownst to him, the distance between their seething selves had gotten increasingly slim, as Sam unyieldingly worked to break the Blondie's resistant walls. She had to crack some time, and he was testified to be rather resolute.

They were a ticking time bomb.

"I'll bet you haven't gotten a roommate because you're just painfully unbearable."

"I'll bet yours kicked you out because you're a whiny piece of shit!"

She did not just go there.

"Bitch!"

"Dick!"

"I'll bet you two wouldn't last a month living together in one apartment even if your lives depended on it," Rachel blurted out, having enough of the childish bickering.

It was a dangerous proposition, more so because Sam Evans had never once ever cowered down from a dare, and he'd be damned if this was his first.

"You're on."

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight; Sam's the guy you've been talking about?" Leaning forward, Brittany squinted across the table into the miserable face of her co-instructor. "The one who spilled coffee on you, and who's the future father of your child?"<p>

"What?" Mike sputtered out, coughing on his draught.

A mean glare was directly aimed at the taller blonde missy as Quinn reached over to give her Asian friend a few good thumps on his back. Totally unnecessary—and also because she didn't want to revisit the past—Quinn pointedly remarked, "that still doesn't make sense, Brit."

"Makes perfect sense to me," the other female dancer replied with a shrug.

Of course it did.

When it came to Brittany S. Pierce, even the Sandman's supposed nightly visits sounded normal. She was the epitome of an overgrown child, with one heck of a wild imagination; not crazy by any means, just special.

"So you said yes?" Mike asked, having recovered from the animated spit-take.

The screeching sound of feedback emanating from the speakers brought the trio out of their conversation to focus on the happenings on stage. Armed with their respective musical instruments, four men took position in front of the buzzing crowd. Quinn felt her frown deepen—if it was even marginally possible—and sought to chug the rest of her beer.

With an acoustic guitar slung over his broad shoulder, Quinn watched—like a predator on prowl—as his eyes scanned the many faces till they eventually landed on hers. He was mocking her, that slant in his gaze framing his ever-existent lopsided smirk, and thought she was scowling back in return, she came to notice how his smart-casual top was not completely unbuttoned, providing her with a clear view of his chiseled plane of muscles.

Oh, damn.

Tapping on the microphone for attention, Puck proceeded to introduce every one of them. "And together, we're Four Peas in a Pod."

_Can't get any cheesier than that._

"His abs look familiar," Brittany mused. "I feel like I've seen them before."

That awkward moment when Quinn couldn't find for the appropriate response; and thus she flagged down the nearest waiter for another round from the tap—anything to block out that image of Sam Evans and where it was leading her wandering thoughts.

"Remind me again why you're so opposed to living with him?"

"Because he's a conceited motherfucker."

"Really?" Brittany looked skeptical. "Even with that outdated hairdo? I mean, I can fry an omelet on his abs but his Beiber cut has got to go."

"He seems a bit of a douche to me."

"Thank you, Mike," Quinn chimed in, glad that at least one of her friends are on her side. "He's cynical and sarcastic, and he has no respect for women whatsoever. I'll probably have to impose the rule of feminism in his backcountry Southern mind."

"Now _that_ makes no sense," Brittany pondered over, wrinkling her nose.

"Look, why don't you just withdraw yourself from this?" Mike suggested. "Just tell him you're not interested and you can go back to hunting for another roommate."

"And look like a wuss?" Quinn arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Besides, the stakes are too high now, and I think he's adamant on proving me wrong. If I back down now, he'll think that he's won."

"This is not a game, Quinn," Mike reminded her in that sensible, hidden-genius tone.

"It is to me," she insisted, more determined than ever. "He can't win this."

A snort escaped Brittany's nose. "You're way too invested in this."

"If I come out of this alive, I get a month of free rent."

Perhaps she should've started with that, because it seemed to get her two co-founders on board with Rachel's crazy idea—not that there were much resistance on Brittany to begin with, and Mike was ultimately more doubtful than disapproving—and Quinn could already see the wheels spinning in their heads.

Her beer was taking way too long to arrive, and it occurred to her all of a sudden that he was singing—a deep, silky voice in perfect harmony with the music—the alluring pull of a rather upbeat serenade causing some unwanted butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Taking a calculated risk, Quinn stole a glimpse over at the band, where she paused, mesmerized by how immersed he was in the song, expertly strumming his guitar and smiling out at the partygoers as though it was the most natural thing on the planet.

Involuntarily, a small grin crept into her lips, and she had to convince herself because it was relatable. She was, after all, a performer too.

"I have an idea."

Under any other circumstances, she wouldn't have taken much of Brittany's words into consideration, but this called for something extreme. "For what, exactly?"

"For you to get an upper hand in this."

"I'm listening."

"You need to set the bar higher, be one step ahead to win. You need an ultimatum."

"Such as…?"

"You need a housemate agreement."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Okay! So got that out of the way, now I'm jumping back into Whisper in my Ear because it deserves some love and attention right now. LOL! With this chapter, though, I guess we can set things in motion and get the party started! Yay! 4 Peas in a Pod…oh God, that was lame. If anybody would like to contribute on name suggestions, please let me know.

**GleekFreak13:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! To answer your question, Quinn and Mike are just really good friends—at the moment—so there's nothing weird going on. He was helping her stretch, so I wouldn't read much into that. It's a Fabrevans story after all. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**FabrevansOTP:** Hi there! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Yes, Quinn's phone is ancient, and she really needs a new one, so I hope I'm doing her a favor, haha! I love a strong main heroine who knows what she wants and is smart and sassy, so I would think Quinn is the sort of girl who's able to stand up for herself. I guess this chapter answers your speculations on Sam and Quinn finally being introduced, so hopefully it's up to expectation. I was a little nervous with this, which is why the update took some time to put up. Hehe! What do you think about the chapter?

**Mandorac:** Hello! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you liked the scene where Quinn kneed Sam in the junk. You're right; he was asking for it. I was thinking who would be the best candidate to play the café owner, and I just had to cast Burt Hummel because it'll be so comical! This is, of course, the chapter where they finally get properly introduced to one another, and I hope it's up to expectations—fingers crossed—because I was a little nervous when I got to writing that bit. Let me know what you think, yeah? Your opinions are always appreciated :D

**Msdiannaagron:** Thank you for reading and reviewing. Noted on the comments.

**Chordilove:** Hi! LOL! You have nothing to apologize for; it's not an obligation to review, but I'd like to thank you for reading and leaving a comment! I'm glad you like where the story is heading so far! Sam and Quinn are totally different here than they are in the show, which I suppose makes imagining their characteristics a bit easier. No holes bar. I'm glad you like the Fabrevans scenes. They're always so much fun to write! Do drop by and let me know what you feel about this chapter :D Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Helloooooooooooo! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Totally appreciate it!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you loved the previous chapter, with Sam and Quinn fighting and what not. There's probably going to be more bickering and sorts from here on, so that would be fun :D Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Quams:** Hi! Thank you for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter! Sam and Quinn bickering is always a pleasure to write :D

**Hrselovr101:** Hello there! LOL! You don't need to apologize for anything. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you loved the previous chapter! That's always good to know :D Awwww…your comments are so sweet! For pointers, well, I read a lot, and then I make mental notes of how different authors write certain situations. Fanfics are really awesome, but it's always good to read a good book and take note of grammar, sentence structure and vocabulary because you know it's gone through subediting. Most importantly, though, I suppose, is practice. The more you write, the more natural your words will flow, so hopefully that helps! It's actually easier to re-build Sam and Quinn as characters because then I won't have to worry about inconsistencies in the show. With this update, I hope I've done that scene justice, where Sam and Quinn officially gets introduced. Do let me know what you think :D Cheers!

**DeGleesi:** Hi there! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter. Thank you for reading and reviewing! To answer your question, Mike and Quinn are really good friends—at the moment—so there's nothing going on between them. He was just helping her stretch, so I hope I didn't confuse you. I hope you've enjoyed this chapter with Sam and Quinn being formerly introduced to one another! Let me know what you think :D Cheers!

**Alli2345:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing :D


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Wow! You guys have never failed to blow me away with such wonderful comments! So without further ado, here's the long overdue chapter!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 8**

She has been expecting him.

Two fucking hours ago.

Pissed as a drunkard fool, Quinn sat her butt at the edge of the couch, her posture pole-straight rigid, contemplating whether or not to check the clock once again as she waited for that ominous knock on the door. The last time she did, she thought she felt her blood pressure skyrocket beyond humanly possible. As a frequent latecomer herself, she was initially in a rather forgiving mood.

This, however, was inexcusable.

_Where the fuck is he?_

Seething—practically fuming—she began tapping her fingers anxiously on the wooden surface of the coffee table. Everything was primly set, the two manila envelopes strategically placed in front of her at precise angles to her liking. Not particularly obsessive by nature, she just needed to occupy her itching fingers before she ended up grabbing the nearest object and hauling it at the wall, all the while picturing Sam Evans in her head.

_God damn it._

Just the idea of him punctuated the deepest sense of loathing in her being unlike anything she had ever experienced before. He resembled a pest, a constant nuisance in her already-flawed-enough world that she could do without, especially since she had stayed up till the crack of dawn following up on Brittany's suggestion, diligently drafting a conclusive agreement to their unwilling arrangement. She had even ensured that no stones were left unturned; that much more determined in crushing him at the bet.

If he wasn't going to appear in the next five minutes, she was planning to damn it all to hell and call it a victory. Her tolerance had long been overdue, and she needed to be at the studio for her usual class, anyway.

Of course, it wasn't like she could give Rachel Berry a ring and chew her newly reacquainted friend's ass off for putting her in such a position, but for all purposes, it was the brunette's fault that she was stuck entertaining a dickhead with a track record of a repulsive jerk. She should've known better.

Releasing a string of expletives to the empty room, Quinn snatched her signature backpack off the floor and marched towards the door, angrily flinging it open, only to reveal a stunned-looking guitarist staring back at her with his fist poised in the air, ready to knock. Even though her glare wasn't enough to blow his head up, it managed to do the job and make him flush with guilt as he sheepishly quirked the corner of his lips upwards in an apologetic smile.

"You're late," she bit out through clenched teeth.

The hand that was in the air made its way to the nape of his neck. "Yeah, I know. Sorry."

"Are you going to tell me why or do I have to wait for that too?" she sassed, folding her arms across her chest.

At least he had the decency not to shoot her with a smart-ass retort. "Honest to God, I wanted to tell you that I was going to be late, but then I realized that your cellphone sort of sunk, so then Rachel gave me the number to your studio but you weren't there—"

"Can you skip to the part where I actually care?"

She was being a bitch, so what?

Whatever he was planning to say next, though, he caught himself at the last second, pursing his enlarged lips together to physically prevent it from happening. The muscles in his jaws visibly tightened, and she marveled at the onslaught of power over him. Cocking an eyebrow, she tauntingly prodded, "well?"

"Work got off late."

That was new.

"Work?" she dumbly parroted, narrowing her hazel eyes. "Wait, you have a job? Like an actual paying job and not some gig in a bar?"

He didn't appreciate her mocking, condescending tone at all, and huffed prissily. "Shut up. Are you going to let me in or do I have to wait for that too?"

Motherfucker.

Quinn scowled at his boldness, and without gracing him with a reply, she spun on her heels and strutted back into the living room, having half the mind to slam the door in his conceited face. Mentally counting to ten, she took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself before plopping down on the sofa and watching as he tentatively stepped into the apartment.

"What's that?" she asked, gesturing at the bulky luggage he was shouldering.

"My stuff."

"Do you lug your entire wardrobe everywhere you go?"

Sam dropped the duffel bag on the parquet, creating a thump that probably echoed his exasperation at her less-than-pleasant attitude, the friendliness dying in his boyishly handsome features. "I was made to think that there's a room available."

She just had to smirk because toying with him was going to be a fucking carnival ride, and Quinn reckoned she was out for a blast. "I didn't say you could move in today."

"What—"

"I just want to lay down some ground rules before we embark on this idiotic journey." There would be time for games later, but at the moment, she only had forty minutes to spare. She slid the document over as Sam slowly lowered himself down on the vacant seat adjacent to her. "Here are some specific obligations in which I would require should you choose to continue with this illegality."

Dumbfounded, he stared at the thickness of the contract, quickly flipping through the papers for a fast skim. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he exclaimed. "It's like a thousand pages."

_What an imbecile._

"Fifty-six pages, actually."

"This is ridiculous."

"As is the bet, but you don't see me whining like a little brat."

"This is totally unfair," he spat out. "You deliberately came up with these damn rules just so you can win stupid a bet?"

Quinn was impressed he was able to comprehend the situation at such a speed, but truly he wasn't that dumb. As much as she was thoroughly enjoying his grapple on her strategy, however, unfortunately, she really had to split. The rush hour was going to be a killer in the subway.

"You can always admit defeat and walk away now, Sam. It'll probably save you the trouble, but just to let you know, I don't take credit cards."

"That's—"

"Feel free to let yourself out when you're done."

* * *

><p>Unbelievable.<p>

_That scheming little bitch._

Sam had barely gotten to the second page when he felt he had read enough of her flapdoodle. Carelessly tossing the document aside, he reached for his cellphone and began furiously working the device. Receiving a dial tone in return, he verbally cursed the heavens before making a second attempt, all the while impatiently pacing the room.

"Hello?"

"Rachel!" he barked, disregarding formalities altogether. "I swear, I'm so close to strangling her to death right now."

"What?" her voice came out all muffled. "Hang on, Sam, let me just…"

Emitting a sound between a sigh and a growl, the blonde musician flopped back down on the couch, tossing his head back as he swiped his palm over his tired face and lamented on his blatant bad luck. All he wanted at the moment was to take a nice, warm shower and to enter the wonderful world of Dreamland. His first day on the job had been tough, but it wasn't something he couldn't handle. Still, it had been a while since he had last gone to the gym, and his muscles were kind of sore. He could feel the layer of sweat and grease on his skin, and damn it was just uncomfortable.

"Hello? Sam?"

"I'm right here," he groaned, shielding his eyes with his free hand.

"What's wrong?" she asked in concern. The background was now void of busy noises, and he supposed she had probably gone to the bathroom or something—if the flushing was of any indication. "Is everything okay with Quinn?"

"She's a fucking psycho, Rach," he complained, unable to contain the nasal childishness from surfacing. "If murder isn't a federal crime, I probably would have her thrown into a pit of starving lions."

He received a chuckle in reply. "That's kind of harsh, don't you think? What happened?"

"She drew up a damn contract for the stinking bet."

This time, she was full-out crowing in his ears, shrill and incredibly piercing to his sensitive skull, where he was now developing a throbbing migraine. "Oh, my God, you can't be serious. You guys are actually going through with it?"

"Laugh all you want, Rach, but know that it's your fault if you find your friend in a body bag tomorrow," he snarled and snatched the contract from the table before flipping to a random page. "She's got a whole list of rules and what not, and I don't even know where she came up with this stuff. Listen to this: 'every item removed from the refrigerator that is not labeled as his/her own has to be recorded on the allocated form on the door'," he read out loud. "That's rubbish! She's a lunatic!"

Rachel had yet to cease in her laughter—made even worse after he had unloaded that crap—and truthfully, he didn't find anything mildly humorous about the entire thing. If he wasn't careful, he might accidentally overlook a clause, like perhaps the permission to use witchcraft on him or some other.

"Rachel!"

"She's a genius!"

Okay, now he was miffed.

"What are you talking about?" he snapped.

At least Rachel had waned down to a light snicker. "You've just been owned and single-handedly played out by a girl, Sam."

Still, he didn't get it. "Huh?"

"Look, I really have to go now, alright?" his best friend's fiancé spoke from the other end of the receiver, just overflowing with flurry. "You just need to know that she's ten steps ahead in the game, and that I'm probably going to have a wonderful conversation with her after this. _Ciao_!"

The line went dead.

_Great. Just fucking great._

And then the phone started ringing; the name of the caller flashing on the screen like a biohazard warning, and it was just what he needed—not.

"What do you want, Puck?"

"Wow, what's gotten your panties in a twist, Evans?" To anybody else, Noah's nonchalant demeanor would've come across as rather cocky and patronizing, but Sam, more than anything, had learned of his band mate's intricate personality. Beneath his aloof exterior, Puckerman actually cared.

"Bad day."

"Are you at the chick's house?"

"Her name is Quinn, and yes, I'm at her apartment right now," Sam begrudgingly answered with a grunt.

"So, you're moving in?"

"Suppose so."

"How's the place like?"

A smile spread across his face, because he knew that it was Puck's own weird way of ensuring that he was safe and sound, and Sam wasn't one to bear grudges, so he figured he was going to let it all slide. Properly examining the house for the first time since he had arrived, Sam took note of the excessive use of pastel colors on the walls and the minimalistic approach to the furniture, impressed—and relieved—that his future housemate wasn't a hoarder. It was a good thing; he liked his space, and he'd be damned she happened to be a replica of Santana Lopez. The lack of undergarments lying around was a positive sign, too.

"It's actually quite alright," he diplomatically replied his Mohawk friend. "Not at all like the Princess Palace I had been expecting."

If only Quinn's personality matched the unprejudiced notion of her home.

Honestly, he hadn't expected her to live in anything bigger than a hotel suite, given how she had to fork the rental on her own. Why would she need so much space anyway?

"Heard it's a loft."

There was a hint of envy in Puck's tone, and even though Sam didn't want to be a jerk about it, he felt his ego swell just a tiny bit, basking in the satisfaction that he might somehow end up with the better deal in the arrangement. Of course, he presumed it was unnecessary to mention the fact that the apartment itself was probably twice the size of the other guitarist's mini two-bedroom, or that the restricted view of Manhattan from the huge-ass window actually counted as an upgrade compared to the monotony of a brick wall outside his previous bachelor cave.

Yeah, he reckoned he could get used to this place.

"Uh-huh."

"Sweet."

"How's Santana doing?" It was a matter of courtesy, and he wasn't really asking for much of an answer, anyway.

"She's fine. Happy."

"Cool."

Their friendship didn't exactly revolve around idle phone conversations; they were dudes, for goodness sake. Before Puck had gone ahead and gotten himself a girlfriend, midnight reruns on television had always consisted of a six-pack, with their hands down their pants. If they were feeling adventurous, sometimes Noah would pull out his private collection of pornography, and they'd watch fake boobs and unrealistic dicks for hours till their eyes hurt—or till the sticky mess in their boxers became too uncomfortable.

"So this Quinn girl…"

Translation: 'Have you tapped her ass yet?'

Rolling his eyeballs up towards the ceiling—and taking note of the peculiar spot beside the light—Sam tried to make his umpteenth sigh of the day sound less dismal. "Maybe you should start planning my prison escape from when I'm charged with manslaughter."

"She turned you down?"

"Worse. She drafted a damn contract on what I can and can't do in the apartment, and she expects me to agree with it or the bet's off," he said, scorning at the bound document. "I'd rather be back home living with my parents. Quinn's a fucking control freak. I'm going to end up in an asylum."

He can practically picture Puck shrugging his shoulders in that careless way of his. "What if you happen to break the rules?"

"I guess that means I lose the bet."

"What if _she_ breaks it?"

It took a couple of seconds before a light bulb metaphorically went off in his head.

"Puck, my man, you're a genius."

* * *

><p>She had barely set foot through the door when Mike conveyed the news.<p>

"Rachel called."

_Oh, God. What is it this time?_

Blowing her breath out and sweeping the blonde bangs from her forehead, Quinn decided to disregard the message and collapsed on the couch with her limps unglamorously sprawled at odd angles. She could afford at least three more minutes of solitude before all hell broke loose—not that it hadn't. Having to deal with Sam Evans was probably worse than babysitting a pack of baby wolves.

"You okay, Quinnie?"

She shot him a piercing glare. "I told you not to call me that."

Taken aback by her bitterness, Mike held both his hands up in surrender. "Sorry."

Her students were already filing in and heading for the studio, and involuntarily, a grin spread across her face, watching the eager faces of the little ones as they waved at her. Out of everything in her life, teaching these kids was possibly the only constant happiness that kept her going. It hadn't once failed to bring a whole refreshed wave of determination in her otherwise beaten spirit. Hopping to her feet, Quinn leaned forward over the booth to drop her Asian friend a quick peck to his cheek.

"Thanks, Chang."

"Kick some ass, Fabray," he told her, the charming smile returning to his lips as his dark eyes twinkled in mischief.

For the next hour, Quinn immersed herself in the class and blocked the thought of Mr. Trouty Mouth out of her head. Though it was relatively easier handling the advanced students—including one Beth Corcoran—she made sure to pay close attention to their linear structures and technique executions. Chaînés and pirouettes were always their main weaknesses, so it was something she drilled on for the better half of the session. Choreography had never been a problem—even though she had to admit that it was a bit more difficult than what they were used to—and by the end of it all, Quinn had to mop the floor dry of dripping sweat before Mike's class commenced.

"Damn, woman," Mike remarked when he walked in to the specks of water. "What did you make your kids do?"

"Oh, just the usual," she faked modesty with a shrug of her shoulders. "Cracking rocks with their bare hands and what not."

Chuckling, he grabbed the cleaning tool from her hands and finished the rest of the job for her. "Should I start calling Child Services?"

"Shut up." It was fast becoming her favorite word of the day.

"So, what's the news with Rachel? Does she have another bet to propose?" If it weren't for the cheekiness behind his words, Quinn would think he was a tad bit hopeful for some reason.

She grimaced, leaning, with her arms crossed, against the full-length mirror. "For your sake—and mine—I fucking hope not."

"How's that bet with you and that dude?"

"I've got him in the palm of my hands." And she was pretty darn pleased with it too, if she said so herself. "If everything goes to plan, he'll be out of my hair in no time."

"That agreement thing?"

"Working like a breeze."

His first pupil entered the studio then, and Quinn took that as her cue to leave, knowing that she had a few errands to run anyway. "You're not staying?" he asked when she was about to exit the room.

"Not today, Mike, sorry," she told him regretfully. "I've got a couple of things to attend to."

"No worries, gorgeous. I'll see you tomorrow."

Quinn smirked at the familiarity of his words, lured back to the now-unspoken times between them, and figured it didn't hurt to humor him because their history had meant something to her as well.

"See you tomorrow, sweetie." She paused; suddenly remembering that Brittany had an early class, and as always, had left straight after. "You sure you can lock up on your own?"

He waved her off. "Go."

Stopping by the grocery store for a quick replenish of her food supplies, Quinn was unexpectedly cornered by one Rachel Berry just as she was about to pick out a box of tampons. It was horrifying.

"Jesus!" she gasped, pressing the feminine sanitary product to her chest, trying to stable her breathing, the brunette's gleeful face bedazzling inches away from her own. "God!"

"Hey, Quinn!"

Feeling violated, the blonde shoved the offending package back onto the shelves, flustered at the unforeseen ambush. "What are you doing here?"

"Sam told me about a roommate agreement?" The good thing about Rachel was that she wasn't the sort to beat around the bush. No crapping about, she just bulldozed right to it.

"Erm…yeah." It came out sounding more like a question than an answer.

And then Rachel did the unthinkable and squealed in Quinn's ears, simultaneously launching herself at her high school friend, pretty much catching the stunned dance instructor totally off guard. "You're officially my hero, Quinnie."

_Alright, enough with the names._

"Huh?" After successfully weaseling her way out of the tight grasp, Quinn, as uncomfortable and awkward as she felt, stared at the aspiring actress in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You are one conniving little Missy," Rachel continued in high-pitched shrillness. "I truly wouldn't have pinned you for the sort. That contract you drew up was just brilliant."

Quinn tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ear. "Thanks, I guess?"

"You're going to go easy on him, though, right?"

A shrug of her shoulders was the only reply Quinn offered.

"I must admit, though, I'm genuinely surprised that you'd go along with the bet. I mean, no offense, but you weren't exactly the most spontaneous person in school."

No matter how insulting that sounded, Quinn couldn't deny the truth in that statement, because it couldn't have been more obvious than if the label was tattooed on her forehead. So she wasn't the life of the party; heck she avoided those as far as possible, but it didn't mean it stung any less.

"Yeah, well, I guess I've changed."

"Yeah, I guess you have."

* * *

><p>Watching an old rerun of Baywatch wasn't the same without Puckerman, and it was kind of a turn off to find a Blu-Ray DVD of Magic Mike tucked into a corner of the sofa with the disc missing anyway—presumably in the player—but it wasn't that he was jealous of the dudes grinding their junk in the movie or anything. He could do a mean body roll if he wanted to. 'Windy City' was his trademark move on stage, and girls went crazy over it. Groaning from the lack of some much-needed ice-cold beer, Sam slumped deeper into the couch and blindly switched the channel, opting for a brainless reality TV show instead.<p>

The jingling of keys broke him out of his bored stupor, effectively diverting his attention to the door where Quinn was struggling to enter with paper bags tucked in her arms. Yet to notice his lingering presence, he took that opportunity to languidly admire her shapely legs, clad in a pair of tight yoga pants, and for a fleeting second wondered what it would be like to have them wrapped around his waist.

"Need some help?"

"Holy shit." She jumped, her back hitting the wall and narrowly toppling the groceries, and for a moment it almost made him feel bad for scaring her so. "You're still here?"

"You don't seem too pleased," he retorted.

"You don't say," she shot back sarcastically before proceeding to drop her groceries on the kitchen counter. "Seriously, Sam, why are you still here?"

"I've read your Housemate Agreement."

He watched in satisfaction as her spine went rigid.

"All fifty-six pages?"

Leaning back on the sofa, Sam stretched his arms out to the sides and fixed the cockiest smile he could muster. "All fifty-six pages."

It was a lie, of course; he couldn't even stomach through the first thirty clauses, and no way in fucking hell was he going to sit and read through the infinite list of ridiculous clauses that only his mom would be impressed with.

"Have you finally decided to pull out of the deal?"

She was relatively confident, he would give her that; it was incredibly sexy on her. Too bad he had to burst her bubble.

"On contrary, _Ma Cherie_, I've actually added in some of my own conditions in the contract—if you'd do the honors in reviewing them—that is," he drawled out, his Southern accent showing through.

"What?" she spat out, marching up to stand in front of him. With a finger jabbing in his direction, she added haughtily, "you can't do that."

Which was precisely why he had prepared a speech beforehand. "I beg to differ. Nothing in that document states that clauses couldn't be added in by the other party before the official seal of approval—i.e. signature—is presented." The gamble was a risk he was willing to take, and damn it was so worth the stupefied look on her face.

Jackpot.

"I take it that your conditions are non-negotiable, as do mine. Take your time."

Roughly snatching up the pile of papers, she flipped them one by one to study the chicken scratches that had vandalized the clean and neatly typed-out sheets, squinting her gorgeous hazel eyes as she tried to decipher his handwriting. "And should I choose not to agree to this?"

He had a comeback ready for that one too. "You're a law student, aren't you? I'm sure you're aware of how this works." Who would've thought it would be so much fun? "Admit defeat, walk away, and I get to stay in this apartment for a month completely rent-free."

While she deliberated on her decision, he came to notice how she would gnaw on her bottom lip—unintentionally turning it a ripe cherry red—and it took everything in his willpower to suppress the groan that threatened to rumble out of his throat. It spurned the memory from when he had kissed her that one morning, and though it hadn't been much before—a five out of ten, probably—Sam couldn't rid himself of that pressing feeling deep within the hidden depths of his jaded soul.

"Three fouls."

He barely heard her then.

"What?"

"We both get three fouls each," she solemnly proposed, the debater in her at long last emerging. "The first to attain them loses. Deal?"

Sounded simple enough. "Deal."

Quinn had an immaculate penmanship—readable compared to his—the cursive words running smooth and strong as she listed down the final clause to complete the contract. Down at the bottom, two dotted lines separated between their individual signatures. With one final quirk of her perfectly sculpted eyebrow his way, she signed her name in cocksure flourish, and slid the cheap fountain pen over. Fulfilling his half of the obligation, Sam marked his initials as legibly as possible before lifting his gaze up to meet her steely glare.

"Shall we seal it with a kiss, Milady?"

"Fuck you."

She was way too easy.

His smirk made another cameo appearance. "I guess that works too."

Recoiling at his deliberate innuendo, the blonde faked a gag before rearranging her features to that of sheer dedication. "You are going down, Sam Evans."

"Bring it on, Quinn Fabray."

Let the games begin.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Ha! Yes! Now the fun officially starts! LOL! A huge thank you for everybody who had read and reviewed, and favorite-d, and followed this story thus far! The encouragements and awesome comments are deeply appreciated! I think it's the most reviews I've ever received so far! Whee! Love you people so much!

**FabrevansOTP:** Hi there! Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm so glad you liked it! They're like a pair of walking magnets for awkward encounters, aren't they? LOL! I'm glad you liked how the scene in the bar played out! It's somehow inevitable. I can't wait to get to the parts where they start going at it with each other and see how far they can push the boundaries! I think it's going to be a hoot to write! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**17SomeOne:** Hello there! No worries about not updating; it's not obligatory. I won't like you any less if you don't so there's nothing to apologize for :D I'm glad you like the idea and concept behind the story! Thank you for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Gleeothfriends90210cccjsAMD:** HI! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I really appreciate it! LOL! Well, obviously Finn was a bit tipsy when he made that comment, and he was trying to make a dirty joke out of it, so 'playing with the band' became a whole other meaning to him. Perhaps he wanted some kinky action :P Hehe! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Msdiannaagron:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad that you are enjoying where the story is heading! I really appreciate your lovely comments :D Hope you've enjoyed reading this update!

**Hrselovr101:** Hello there! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! You're such a sweetheart, and I really appreciate your wonderful comments! I know how you feel! I had mixed feelings about whether or not I should've added in a kiss, but I reckoned it would ruin the tension some, and they probably would have some explaining to do to their peers if they get caught. Oh yes, totally agree with you on the obnoxious flirting! LOL! If you want to see the outline, then stealing my phone would be a good way to it! Haha! I jot things down as and when they come to me, so they're basically in bits and pieces :D I think there were some typo errors in the previous chapter, so yes, there was supposed to be some abs. I wrote "and thought she was scowling back in return, she came to notice how his smart-casual top was not completely unbuttoned, providing her with a clear view of his chiseled plane of muscles" when it's supposed to be "and though she was scowling back in return, she came to notice how his smart-casual top was now completely unbuttoned…" so she definitely appreciated his abs! I seriously would love to start on the Fabrevans action, and I'm making sure I add some goodness in the next chapter, I promise! Spoiler for you: "As Puck always said: Sex is key". How does that sound? ;P Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Andsoitis2:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Quams:** Hello! Well, thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! It's always appreciated! Glad to make you smile! :D Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**RJRRAA:** HELLO! LOL! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I've always looked forward to your support, and I really appreciate it! No, you definitely do not sound weird because yes, they would have AWESOME angry sex!

**Ipizzippy:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I know that they haven't officially moved in yet, but they will be! It's going to be a lot of fun to write! I can't wait either! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Mandorac:** Hello there! Hehe! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! As always, your thoughts are truly appreciated! You always give constructive comments and suggestions! Well, I suppose Finn is sort of like a leader even though they don't technically have someone who's officially in charge. LOL! I like Frankenteen & the Banshees! It gives the Superbowl/Thriller feel! I'll be sure to insert that in, dedicated just to you! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**xSilverandGreenx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing the previous chapter! I'm glad you like where the story is heading so far! I can't wait to start writing on the stuff that's going to happen when he officially moves in (which, I suppose, now he has) and yes, it's going to be crazy! LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**DeGleesi:** Hello! Thank you so very much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate your time and effort! So glad that you like how the story is developing so far! For all that it's worth, Sam and Quinn (especially in the show) have always had the sparks there without even trying. LOL! I'm glad it's coming across just fine in the story :D Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! I'm glad that you like how the chemistry is progressing between Sam and Quinn. I had to make sure that they don't come off as too mean to each other, you know, to the point where it's just pure hatred, but where Fabrevans in concerned, there will always be sexual frustration. LOL! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**xXLil'BitOfEveryThangXx:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad that you like how the story is shaping out, and Fabrevans chemistry—though it's the scariest to write—is probably the most fun I've ever done! I hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I did writing it! Cheers!

**Alli2345:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Blondeinboots:** Whee! LOL! HELLO! Wow, thank you so much for creating an account and going through all that trouble just to review! I'm so flattered and so appreciative of it! You just totally made my day! I'm so happy that you like all the Fabrevans scenes and how they bounce off each other's personalities! Mike/Quinn romance, eh? LOL! I love a good Fabang action, but before I scare anyone off, my OTP has and will always be Fabrevans, so no worries there! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Guest:** Awww…thank you so much! Wish you could've signed in so that I can thank you properly, but I appreciate the wonderful review nonetheless!

**Lexipuckerman14:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Glad you like it so far! Hopefully you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **I'm back! Okay, so I was never gone to begin with; this chapter just took longer than I'd expected because I'm piecing up bits and pieces that were in my head. Thank you so much to everybody who's stuck by my tardiness and me. Without your love and support, my work would've lost all meaning!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 9**

Without bothering to knock on the door—as he was accustomed to doing so often—Sam barged into the apartment and marched straight up to the one person perched on the couch. Knowing that he wasn't interrupting anything particularly productive—save for the latest football highlights flashing on the television screen—he haphazardly slapped the stack of papers down onto the coffee table, the loud thump echoing throughout the space effectively drawing the appropriate amount of attention to himself.

Finn regarded his band mate for a split second before muting the volume on the sports commentary. "What the hell is this?"

"The fucking roommate agreement that Quinn is imposing on me," Sam replied, his patience running thin, his frustration fluctuating with each ticking second.

Operating on little to no sleep, every moment he had spent awake the night before poring over the infinite list of clauses—hoping to find another loophole of sorts—was reducing him into Oscar the Grouch. Caffeine would've been a blessed lifesaver too, but apparently, it was too much of a roommate request for Quinn Fabray to even own a coffee maker; which surprised him a little because her pressing need for Caramel Macchiato was the primary reason they had met to begin with.

_Is it only Starbucks that would tickle her fancy?_

Still suspiciously eyeing the mess on his furniture, Finn slowly nodded his head, though the confusion evident in his wide-set brown eyes. "Okay," he supplied, drawing out the last syllable. "And?"

"I need a strategy."

_Pronto._

Finn leaned forward on the edge of his seat and gingerly flipped through the pages of the document. "Huh," he remarked, somewhere between a snicker and a snort.

"Three fouls and I'll win this," Sam explained, heading for the kitchen—knowing that he'd be rewarded with the much-needed beverage—and helping himself to a mug of cold black gold. His grimaced at the bitterness—wondering if Rachel was behind the brew—but really, all he needed was that high kick to his senses. "The only problem is, I don't know how."

"And why on earth you chose to come to me for that is kind of baffling," Finn smirked and got up to join his friend at the center island.

Sam figured it was obvious enough without needing to spell it out. If he had it his way, he would've gone straight to Finn's fiancée, but chances are, he would most likely end up having to listen to a long-winded lecture on moral values that he truly didn't need. "Because out of all the guys in the group, you know her the best."

"That still doesn't explain anything."

"You know all of her strengths and weaknesses."

A metaphorical light bulb went off in Finn's head as he comprehended the situation, and Sam had to resist the pressing urge to roll his eyes when a spectrum of emotions flickered through his comrade's face. Seriously, it shouldn't take that long to put two and two together, but the Frankenteen seemed to be giving the issue some serious thought—or perhaps he was simply staring into space, if the faraway look was any indication. As comical as it was witnessing an idea form in Finn's head, Sam couldn't afford the creeping time allowance.

He needed a plan.

Now.

"What's the whole point of this, again?"

"It's all about who can push the other to his/her breaking point first. I need to prove to people that she's the impossible one to live with. Come on, man, you've got to help me," Sam pressed on, the urgency ringing in his tone. "I just need some dirt on Quinn."

Finn scrunched his nose, a crinkle of lines between his eyes. "I don't know, Sam. This stupid bet thing is between the both of you. I don't want to get involved, not to mention, Rachel would call it cheating."

"What do you think this is? Sixth grade?" Sam retorted sarcastically. Out of all the cards Finn had to pull, that was the lowest. Playing the righteous boyfriend game was just about the perfect ass-kissing—yet, utterly predictable—move in the entire history of lame excuses. Frankly, it was an embarrassment to men everywhere how much his significant other could influence even the most masculine of decisions.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, dude."

A repressive sigh escaped Sam's oversized lips. _Jesus, one would think I'm a sadist just by talking to Finn_, he inwardly groaned. _He makes accompanying a girl to go shoe-shopping look like a walk in the park._

Alternate plan.

"You can't let me down, alright," Sam all but practically pleaded, the unfortunate desperation surfacing with each word. "What happened to 'bros before hoes'?"

Technically, Rachel wasn't a _ho_, and he'd be damned if she heard him say that, but Finn is nothing if not totally naïve. Sam reckoned the guy lived to please everyone with how eagerly he would agree to something if it meant people were happy.

"Okay, fine."

Jackpot.

Disguising his victorious smirk as much as possible, Sam took another gulp of his coffee, careful not to give away anything that might rattle Finn's fragile mind.

"I can't believe I'm about to do this," he murmured—more so to himself—and inhaled a deep breath as though bracing for impact of a train wreck. "But don't tell Rachel, okay? She'll chain me to a pole if she ever finds out—"

"The one that's up her ass?"

Frowning at the blatant insult to the love of his life, Finn fixed Sam with a venomous glare. He opened his mouth of offer a counter attack, pausing, however, at the last second before his broad shoulders slumped in defeat. "Hey, no slandering of me fiancée."

_Could've been worse._

"Dude, why do you put up with her?" Sam mused out loud.

Finn cocked an eyebrow. "Because I love her."

"Are you telling or asking me?"

Visibly fed up with the onslaught of verbal abuse, Finn threw his hands up in the air and huffed in annoyance. "Why do I bother with you, Sam? You wouldn't understand what it feels like to be in love with a woman."

"Whatever, Hudson," Sam waved dismissively, currently not in the mood to be bothered to justify himself and his love life—or the lack thereof. He would entertain the notion in some other dimension; he couldn't care less. "You don't need to go all chick-flick on me, now, alright? I just need a solution to this shit with Quinn, win that stupid-ass bet, and live in a place where I don't have to constantly listen to Puckerman hump his girlfriend like a pair of horny bunnies."

"You know what your problem is?" Finn returned, jabbing a finger in the blonde guitarist's direction. "You think you have it all figured out, that you think the concept of being in love is a fucking sham, but one day, you're going to find a girl, and you would think that she's the most beautiful creature in the world, and you're going to do whatever it takes to make her happy. Your friends will tease you and call you names but it wouldn't stop you from loving her any less."

The pregnant pause that followed hung heavily in the air; the weight of his words reverberating in Sam's head, tugging at his heartstrings, for he knew it was inevitable. Yet, he never wanted to believe it until the information was presented as such, and it terrified him a little. The future had always been so hazy to him, so far-fetched; he figured he was way too jaded to allow himself the luxury of feeling. It was, of course, a lot easier when his world was all about the 'wham, bham, thank you ma'am', but love was ridiculous.

Love was complicated.

When at last he spoke, the resonance was that of an exhausted man.

"Just give me the dirt on Quinn Fabray."

The first minute that went by in silence made him think that Finn wasn't ever going to disclose a smidge of information—that he was going to follow through with being the loyal fiancé—but by the second minute, Sam knew that the inner battle was becoming too much of a hassle for his dear friend.

"She hates Miley Cyrus."

Sam blinked once. "Sorry, what?"

"Just shut up and take notes, okay?"

* * *

><p>"Hey, Quinn, are you still looking for an internship?"<p>

Lifting her gaze away from the course book in her lap, she turned her hazel eyes up to meet those of Mike Chang's; intrigued by his question. His skilled hands stilled on her feet, halting in their former ministrations as he glanced down at his cellphone, reading an incoming text.

"Uh-huh."

He sent an impish grin her way, one that she was already so well-acquainted with, and instantly she knew he had something up his sleeve—or tank top, whichever. Retracting her leg, Quinn eagerly sat up to listen to his announcement, practically shoving the thick book into his side.

"So I have this friend I know," he explained, deliberately taking his own sweet fucking time to enunciate each diphthong, prolonging the news as much as possible just to rile her up. "His girlfriend goes to Tisch, but he's a legal assistant in a small law firm specializing in commercial litigation."

Condemnation and employment wasn't exactly her forte; she was very much more attracted to criminal law—then again, so did every aspiring attorney—but desperate times called for desperate measures, and her barely-existent career depended on this. Whether or not it was involved in the practice of her choice, she would deal with that when it came. For all it was worth, it could very well be the learning experience that she needed—something to venture out of her comfort zone.

Rachel would be proud.

"And…?"

Mike shrugged modestly. "Well, I may have mentioned to him about this ex-girlfriend I have who might one day be the best lawyer in all of Manhattan and—"

She launched herself at him before he could even finish, with what he was trying to say, catching him off guard as she wrapped her arms around his neck and squealed into his ears. Grunting from the unexpected impact, Mike breathed out a low chuckle and murmured, "I haven't even told you the rest yet."

"Shut up," she giggled, burying her nose into the crook of his neck and inhaling the familiar scent of Mike's cologne. "And thank you. You're the best."

"You're welcome." Then, pulling back from the embrace, he added, "I would suggest we go celebrate but Ed wants you in by eight tomorrow and we both know how well you can hold your liquor."

"Great!" she gushed; still giddy from the positive turn of outcome, that she hadn't even realized his backhanded taunt. "Great, just text me the location tonight."

"Just don't get lost this time, okay?"

This time, his jab didn't go unnoticed, and Quinn's palm conveniently—almost instinctively—made contact with the back of his head. At least it made more of an impression than her slightly wilting glare, lacking the right amount of fire to inflict any sort of hurt to Mike's ego.

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" she pouted, the retort sounding more like a whiny tantrum. When Mike only ended up doubling over in mild hysterics, Quinn heaved an irritated sigh and promptly hopped off the weathered couch. "Well, fine, go ahead and laugh at my expanse. I'm going home. There's much to prepare for."

"Oh, come on, Quinnie—"

Horrified that he'd recycled that God-forsaken nickname, she whipped around, sputtering, "what did I—you—Mike!"

"Sorry, sorry!"

Bending down, she snatched her textbook up from the sofa and glowered bitterly at her co-founder. "Apology not accepted."

It was a lie, of course; there was nothing she wouldn't forgive him for, but he really was pushing her buttons now. With a huff, she stuck her nose high up in the air and stalked off towards the reception area, gathering all of her belongings on the way out of the studio.

Stepping out into the semi-darkness of the night, the streetlights looming overhead along the pavement were her only sources of comfort. Though the neighborhood wasn't particularly dodgy, there was still a sense of danger when a girl was all by her lonesome. The air was chilly, the wind biting into her skin, and Quinn tugged her bright yellow pea coat closer to her body, hurrying in her stride to seek the warmth of a nearby subway.

She couldn't wait to return home.

And then she remembered of one Sam Evans.

* * *

><p>She could hear the ruckus even before she stepped out of the elevator, stopping short to wonder where the hell it was coming from, or which one of her fellow tenants would be mental enough to disregard the house rules and risk rousing the beastly William Schuester. Scoffing at the stupidity, Quinn strolled down the corridor; suddenly aware of the caterwauling growing louder the nearer she got to her apartment, feeling the vibrations under her shoes.<p>

_What the fuck?_

Immediately scrambling for her set of keys and then concluding that Sam probably hadn't locked the damn door to begin with, she twisted on the knob and was greeted with the sight of four grown men in her living room, jumping about like they were playing for the entire Madison Square Garden, totally oblivious to her presence. Between the screeching electric notes blasting out of the amps, the reverberating thumping of the bass and drums, and the crashing of cymbals, Quinn was surprised that her landlord hadn't already started hammering on the door. Worried that her windows were going to shatter—and that she would be automatically kicked out onto the streets—she scanned around for the source of her misery. Someone had to save the rest of New York from this sorry excuse for music.

Marching over to the corner of the room, she yanked out the main plug from the socket. Like an instant answer to her prayers, the cacophony died down, relieving her pleading ears from attaining some serious damage.

"What the hell, Quinn!"

Her fiery eyes slanted across the room to scowl into the pissed-off face of a certain blonde guitarist. Carelessly flinging the cable aside—and disregarding Rory's whimper of regret altogether—she stormed up to match Sam head-on, fuming with uncontained rage as she cursed nine thousand ways until sunrise for the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

"What are they doing here?" she demanded heatedly, making her displeasure abundantly clear to every breathing person in the premise. It was fair enough she hadn't used a profanity.

"We have a gig tomorrow." Sam had the audacity to not sound even the least bit guilty about it too.

Folding her arms across her chest, she cocked an eyebrow. "So?"

"So we're practicing."

"Here?"

"Rachel has an early rehearsal tomorrow," Finn supplied sheepishly, a redder tinge to his already pink cheeks. "And she doesn't like all the noise disrupting her beauty sleep, so Sam thought you wouldn't mind if we crashed here."

Of course he'd think so.

_If this is how he wants to play the game, then so be it._

"Well, I have an eight o'clock interview tomorrow and I would prefer showing up without looking like a first-class hobo," she haughtily informed her roommate, staring icily at him to ensure that it was drilled into his hardy skull. "Now, I'm going to say this in the nicest way possible: this is my house, so get out."

As if it was going to be that easy.

"Whoa, hold on there, Blondie," he spat the given nickname of her out like burning vermin. "Our agreement states that you can't dictate when the band comes over. I think you're on your way to your first official foul."

Quinn couldn't believe he was hurling that at her.

"Me?" she shrieked in disbelief, her arms flailing about almost hysterically, because really, what was so difficult about respecting her space? "You should be given a foul for failing to inform me of guests an hour prior to them arriving."

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did," he insisted, growing increasingly exasperated. "Check your cell phone."

"You crashed my cell phone, you jerk!"

Sam shrugged in an unapologetic manner, the mask of nonchalance back on his conceited features. "Whoops, I guess I forgot, but here," he rummaged into the shallow depths of his back pocket before fishing out his own phone and scrolling through his list of text messages. He held the evidence up for her to see. "There you go."

Indeed, he had, which miffed her even more because she had just been ousted in front of a bunch of people—whether or not their opinion mattered to her—and she terribly hated to lose, not if she could help it.

"How did you get my number anyway?"

He was smirking now, milking in the fact that she was avoiding the obvious. "I asked Rachel. Don't you think it's odd that we live together and yet we don't have each others' contact details?" Rhetorically speaking, of course. "You should get a new phone," he went on patronizingly, even though he knew for sure she couldn't afford it. "What if there's some sort of roommate emergency and I can't get to you?"

Balling her hands into two tight fists, Quinn mentally calculated to ten and forced some normality in her pulse rate. Honest to God, it felt like babysitting a bunch of preschoolers. If ever her patience ran out, she needed to make sure that his murder was on accord that she was mentally unstable. His friends would bear witness to it.

"Then you can call the studio."

"Just get the damn phone, Quinnie."

She was seconds away from slapping that stupid grin off his smug expression, but then quickly reminded herself that physical abuse and harassment could warrant a foul. Sam was willfully being a fucking ass, and she'd go to the grave before ever bowing down to his inflating ego.

"Look, I don't have time for this, okay? I have things to do for tomorrow," she huffed, deciding to end this childishness in the most mature way. "I'm going to take a shower and when I'm done, I want you guys out of this apartment—all of you. This isn't about dictating what your band does, Sam. It's about you making enough noise to wake the dead, and I'm sure the landlord would have something to say about your contribution to the pollution, so I suggest the rest of you leave right now, before he decides that I'm better off homeless." When Sam opened his mouth to add his two cents, she held up a finger warningly to silence him. "There's a 'no disturbance after nine' policy in the building, Sam, and I'm sure I've made that clear in the agreement. Should I foul you for that, or perhaps you'd like to revisit _Couplesville_ with Puck and his girlfriend?"

There was a round of snickers, one that he obviously didn't appreciate.

"We weren't making that much of a noise."

A triumphant flutter leapt in her stomach. The slight uncertainty in his voice was a dead giveaway. "I can hear you from the elevator."

"Fine," he relented with a strain in his baritone. "We'll dial it down, but we really need to nail it for tomorrow's gig."

"Then go find somewhere else—preferably underground."

"Quinn—"

"No, Sam, I mean it," she snapped in finality. "Practice all you want tomorrow when I'm not home, but not tonight."

"Damn it, Quinn—"

"No, it's cool, Sam," Finn swooped in to save the day, already dismantling his drum kit. "We can continue with this tomorrow. It is pretty late, anyway."

For that, she was really grateful that they had established a friendship back in high school. "Thank you, Finn. Please say 'hi' to Rachel for me when you get back, alright?"

"Will do," he nodded.

With one last exchange of glares between the housemates, Quinn sauntered off towards her bedroom.

"God, she's such a bitch."

* * *

><p>The constant clacking of keys on her laptop was slowly driving him to the brink of insanity. Grumbling incoherent nothings under his breath, Sam glanced up from plucking his guitar strings to peer over at her.<p>

Perched on a stool by the kitchen bar, Quinn sat cross-legged with her back to him, furiously typing away, almost in a trance-like manner. Truthfully, he hadn't been paying much attention to what she had been droning about earlier on, and he had no fucking clue what she was working on, but he reckoned it had to be important because she hadn't noticed the strap on her camisole slipping down her arm.

He stared, suddenly transfixed by the creamy fairness of her bare skin. Previously well-thought-out lyrics and chords were lost in the transcends of his blanketed mind, and for the life of him, Sam couldn't find the strength to look away. The overhead lamp shone down like a halo around her silky blonde hair, casting a warm glow on her toned figure, and highlighting the delicious curve of the juncture between her neck and shoulder when she tilted her head just so. Stifling a low groan, Sam subconsciously darted his tongue out to wet his lips, swallowing the huge lump lodged in his throat as he tore his gaze away.

Damn it.

How long had it been since he'd last gotten laid?

_Much too long, if Quinn Fabray is turning me on without even doing anything._

He decided he needed a beer—and a walk—or presumably some compliant female with readily available services who wouldn't mind accepting payment via song-of-choice. Snorting at the prospect, he reckoned he'd have to go to town with his right hand tonight.

_What about now, then? Now seems good._

Before he self-combusted in front of her—literally—since she was currently stretching her arms up above her head, revealing the strip of creamy flesh above the waistband of her pants completely exposed and the dimples on her tailbone in front-row seats for his viewing pleasure.

And just as well, there was a loud banging on the door, jolting him out of his sex-starved spell while Quinn made a move to hop off the chair in all gracefulness, taking a peek outside through the peephole. Sam noticed how she visibly stiffened at the new intrusion, and through some male hormonal instinct, he stood up from his seat in an inherent need to protect a lady, even though he hated her guts.

Quinn opened the door with a cautiousness he didn't know she possessed. "Mr. Schuester," she greeted in an unnaturally high octave, showcasing her pearly whites the volume of a beauty pageant. "This is such a surprise; how may I help you on this wonderful evening?"

Sam bit the grimace from surfacing at her menial attempt at sucking up to the other man, who, if it was any consolation, didn't seem to give a rat's ass about her efforts.

"Miss Fabray," the older guy began, clearing his throat in the most professional way possible—not that he really needed to, really. With the charcoal dress slacks, paired with an ivory-colored long-sleeve button-down, a mismatched crimson tie and an awful puke-brown plaid sweater vest, he couldn't pass off as anything less than a landlord. "I was notified of a disturbance earlier on coming from your apartment. Do you know anything about that?"

She faked confusion in the best way possible. "I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary."

Nobody was that stupid, and Sam once again had to refrain himself from rolling his eyeballs.

"Are you certain, Miss Fabray?" William prodded, studying her suspiciously. "Your neighbors rang me up while I was out enjoying my anniversary dinner with complaints of tremendous disruption. It sounded like you had a party and forgotten to invite the whole block."

"Seriously, Mr. Schuester, I have no idea what they're talking about," Quinn defended herself, the epitome of innocence still carved in her soft features. "Look, if you don't believe me, have a look around." She casually stepped aside, swiping her hands out to gesture towards the clean-as-a-laboratory living room. "There's no party here."

William's judgmental gaze swept through the apartment, surveying each corner and inch, before landing on Sam's form. The negative signals that were ignited his way sent him cowering slightly, and the guitarist wished a black hole would appear and suck him in.

"Is he your fiancé?"

Quinn whipped her head around, as though only realizing that he'd been standing behind her all along. "What? No, no, he's not my fiancé."

"Your boyfriend?"

She shook her head, blonde hair flying in the wind. "No, not my boyfriend either."

"Are you sleeping with him?"

_Hello, I'm standing right here, you dickhead._

"Ew, no!"

Way beyond insulted, Sam let out a snort of disgust. She obviously didn't need to make it sound like he was ridden with STDs; women fell onto their knees for him everywhere he went. He was going to be a rock star, damn it, and besides, uptight girls like Quinn Fabray wasn't really his type anyway; she was too high-maintenance.

"We're just temporary roommates," Sam decided to salvage the situation. Extending his hand out, he began introducing himself. "Nice to meet you, sir, I'm Sam Evans."

"William Schuester, and I am the landlord." He turned back to Quinn, frowning at the new discovery. "How long is he staying here?"

_Again, I'm right here._

"Oh, not long," Quinn nervously answered. "About a month, or two."

"I would need his I.D. for verification purposes, so that I'm assured that you're not harboring illegal immigrants."

He was from Tennessee, for fuck's sake, but Quinn had that murderous hint in her deep hazels that spoke of a million death threats if he didn't comply to the landlord's wishes. Fumbling for the wallet in his pocket, Sam plucked his identity card out of the holder and shoved it towards the man. Satisfied that he wasn't an alien in the country, William averted his attention back to his principal tenant.

"I also take it that you're aware that the deadline for your overdue payments are in two days?" It wasn't much of a question, really, more so a stern reminder. "Will I be expecting the full seven months' worth then?"

Fidgeting on the spot, Quinn twiddled her thumbs uncomfortably, gnawing on her bottom lip, and it was such a new development on Sam's end to finally see her squirming. The cocksure demeanor was collapsing brick by brick; she was crumbling into helpless little pieces that he knew was killing her. Her sharp, cat-like eyes darted back and forth between the two men, the wheels turning in her head.

"Can I talk to you in private out in the hallway, Mr. Schuester?" she requested politely. Then, not waiting for a reply, she exited the room, slamming the door shut in her wake.

Not wanting to miss out on anything crucial, Sam pressed one side of his ear against the wooden barrier, straining to eavesdrop on the conversation. Despite her more-than-annoying voice, he failed to pinpoint key words that would assist him in figuring out all the fuss. What he was able to deduce from the brief encounter, was an extremely belated rental fee. Convinced—after half a minute of listening—that he wasn't going to be satisfied with some answers, Sam slumped back on the couch to continue his idle strumming of his beloved instrument.

His inspiration just struck.

* * *

><p>"So?"<p>

She froze in her tracks, slowly pivoting on her heels to meet his inquiring expression, hoping to avoid the one thing she had been dreading.

"So, what?" she countered, fixing on her most pedestrian faux front.

"So, what was that all about?"

"Nothing."

"Quit fucking with me, alright?" he told her evenly, in a way that made her think he actually cared. "Is there anything wrong with the rent?"

She really didn't want to handle this right now. There was a curriculum vitae currently calling out to her, and an outfit in her wardrobe that needed to be straightened out; the last thing she needed was to entertain a nosy housemate. "It's none of your business, okay?"

"Like hell it isn't, Quinn," he snapped back, losing all strings of patience, and as much as she hated to admit it, he was rather terrifying when infuriated. "How behind are you in your rents?"

"Seven months," she mumbled to the floor.

"Damn it, Fabray—"

Oh no, he didn't get to berate her about her life; she was having none of it. For all purposes, he was only there to fulfill his obligation to the fucking bet. Lecturing her on her poor financial handling wasn't on his to-do list. "Look, you don't have to bother about that at all. I've worked it out with William and we've come to an understanding."

Too bad her flimsy explanation did nothing to placate him. "You're not fooling anybody here, and I'm sure you don't take me for some idiot," he went on, and she thoroughly wondered if his temper was a result of an unhappy childhood because she hadn't in her life ever met a guy with so much pent-up frustrations. "If I'm doing the math right, the only way you're able to pay up is when I actually lose this game, which, let's face it, will never happen if I can help it."

The intensity in which he was taking her in sent a slight shiver down her spine, those pools of green—now darker than ever—devouring every semblance of her soul as she desperately tried to brace herself from drowning in his magnetic pull. Foreign butterflies started appearing, fluttering in the pits of her stomach, sending a spread of warmth up to her cheeks.

"But let's just say that you do win at the end of the month, how will you get the money in two days to settle the imperative amount?"

"I can get a loan."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she cursed at the uncertainty in her voice.

"In two days?" he scoffed. "That's not going to happen, sweetheart."

"You don't—"

"Just shut up and let me finish."

Quinn recited a silent mantra, reminding herself that homicide was a federal crime because she was one obnoxious remark away from committing murder.

"I'll make you a deal, Quinn Fabray," he continued, leisurely stalking up, like a predator hunting its prey—the irony of it not lost to her—to stand an arm's length away from her. "I'll give you a down payment on this month's rent after I get my share from the gig tomorrow. If I lose this, I'll settle my half for next month too, but if you lose, I want my money back. That way, we can both be sure that we have a roof over our heads, and I can continue kicking your pretty little ass at this stupid bet."

With him at such close proximity, Quinn was finding it a tad bit hard to concentrate on anything but the masculine scent of his cologne—smelling every bit like a true Southern man—and she loathed how it was tripping her out. Unable to comprehend this newfound stirring in her emotions, she shook herself out of the momentary lapse—blaming it on stress—to settle on a decision.

"Sounds great."

"Great, then it's settled."

"Oh, and I might have to add one more thing in our agreement if we're so adamant on pushing each other off the cliff," she added as an afterthought. "No swearing or name-calling, and that includes 'Quinnie' and 'Blondie'."

"Simple enough."

She nodded once to acknowledge the accordance.

"Just one question, though."

"What?"

"What's wrong with Quinnie?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** A huge, huge thank you to everybody who had contributed in making me smile each time I open my email to receive such wonderful reviews! It's always such a great motivation to get my ass in gear and write on. In all honesty, I really do appreciate all the love!

**Alli2345:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my previous chapter! Hopefully you've enjoyed this update just as much! Cheers!

**Ipizzippy:** Hello! And so it does! LOL! Thank you so much for leaving a review! More hilarity to come! Let me know what you think, okay?

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! As always, thank you so much for never failing to brighten up my day! Hahaha! I can't wait to write the awesome sex too! It's going to be so much fun! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**FabrevansOTP:** Hi! Awwww….shucks! Really, you guys are the real hero, here. Without my readers, my life as an author has no meaning. Thank you so much for leaving a wonderful review! I'm really glad that you've enjoyed the previous chapter! The contract thing is hilarious, because they're just setting rules for themselves to make things a bit more difficult. The idea is to push each other to their breaking points, which they're trying to do, but Quinn wants to ensure that she's getting the upper hand, only to be played out (like you've amazingly pointed out) by Sam. Well, there's definitely more inappropriate thoughts about each other in this chapter, so I hope you like those bits :D Let me know what you think of this update! Cheers!

**Tea-and-Insanity:** Hi there! Sorry, I didn't mean to drag an update for so long, I hope this story hasn't gotten stale! 5 months for 8 chapters is a total crawl, I know. Well, thank you so much for reviewing and letting me know how you feel! I really appreciate it! I love the idea about Sam being another girl back just to see Quinn's reaction! I'll be sure to definitely keep this in mind for future references! Thank you so much for the kind comments, too! Do let me know what you think of this update, yeah? Cheers!

**Xvzgirl:** Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Guest:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading my story and leaving a review! I'm glad you've liked my story so far and how I portray the characters! I probably don't update this story soon enough, though, but I hope you've enjoyed this chapter just as much!

**Quams:** Hi there! Thank you so much for the PM that you've sent me, and also thank you for reading and reviewing! So this chapter is Sam and Quinn's official first day attempt at living with each other and trying to get on each other's nerves, and of course, more ridiculous rules will entail after this. I'm glad you find their witty banter entertaining! Those dialogues are the most fun to write :D Truthfully, I can't wait for the moment I get to write the point of time where they fall in love, and it'll be so much fun! Let me know what you think of this update! Cheers!

**Mandorac:** Hi, hi! First of all, I'm so sorry for the terribly long wait. At the risk of sounding totally biased to my other stories, I actually pay more attention to this one more than any other. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and I'm glad that you loved the previous chapter! It means that I'm doing my job right, LOL! The rules that they've set for each other are ridiculous, I can assure you, and it's not saying much at this point of time in the story, but it'll get better, because they're both obviously trying to weasel through the loopholes and see how much they can get away with. I don't want to make Sam sound like a pig or anything, I was afraid I might come across as that when he was ogling Quinn's legs, but I'm really glad you didn't think so! Yay! I think it'll be something sweet at the end when they do somehow fall in love (not to give away too much even though it's just dead obvious). Do let me know what you think of this update! Cheers!

**xXLil'BitOfEveryThangXx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like where the story is heading. It's nothing serious at all, just pure fun, and as the story progresses, the clauses in the agreement would slowly be revealed. I'm sure both Sam and Quinn would push each other's boundaries with the rules they've made up! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Whenwecalleditlove:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I truly appreciate it! I'm glad you like everything that's going on between Sam and Quinn, and yes, I'm sure Sam has more tricks up his sleeve! Cheers!

**Valerie:** Hi there! Awwwwwww…blush! Thank you so much for reading and leaving wonderful comments! You totally made my day (and a little flatter does go a long way, LOL!) :D I'm glad you like the story so far! Do let me know what you think of this chapter! Hugs!

**17SomeOne:** LOL! Hello there! Gave me a heart attack for a second, but thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm really glad that you've enjoyed the previous chapter! Let me know what you think of this one too, yeah? Cheers!

**Lexiepuckerman-evans14:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! It's much appreciated! Can't wait for the fun to start too! Next chapter, I promise!

**xXalienatedXx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it! I can't wait to put all the fun and dirty stuff in this story! I'm going to have such a ride with this story! LOL! I'm glad you loved the previous chapter! Let me know what you think of this update! Cheers!

**Bey:** Hi there! I know this chapter is long overdue, but thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Much appreciated! :D

**Carcar234:** Hello there! Thank you for reading and reviewing the story! I can't wait to write the fun bits too! Cheers!

**Bytheseashore:** Hi, hi! Well, thank you for stumbling across my humble story! I'm glad you like where it's heading so far, and thank you for reviewing! No, I haven't given up on the story; it just takes a little longer than I'd anticipated because I'm such a perfectionist. Let me know what you think of this chapter!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hi there! Oh, wow, thank you! I'm really flattered! No, I definitely haven't forgotten about this story. It's just taking a little longer than usual. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my work! Glad that you like it!


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Sooooooo…after a year and a half of waiting—and I truly apologize for this long overdue chapter—here's an update for all you wonderful people! You guys have been incredibly patient, and I can't begin to thank you enough for the constant support and motivation!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 10**

He was prematurely awakened at the crack of dawn, startled by the cacophony of unidentified banging sounds happening right outside his door. Sam rolled over on his stomach and groaned as he impaled the pillow into his head to drown out the problem.

It neither ceased in volume nor decreased in nuisance.

_What the fuck is going on?_

Taking a peek at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he spat out a string of rich profanities and shot out of bed, because seriously, he treasured every second of sleep he could afford. Whatever—or whomever—was causing such distress to his being had better be covered with sufficient insurance. Eyelids still barely opened, Sam padded out into the hallway and hopped down the flight of stairs, blinking against the daylight streaming into the living room to find his ever-beloved roommate—sarcasm involved—making a fuss in the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing?"

She whipped her head around, a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, and for reasons lost to him; an uncharacteristically cheerful smile was dancing upon her gloss-lathered lips. It was weird all the same, for he didn't think he'd ever seen her with anything but a frown on her otherwise gorgeous face.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Her falsely sugarcoated words insinuated that she wasn't at all apologetic.

"Don't pretend like it wasn't on purpose," he growled.

From where he stood leaning against the center island, Sam noticed how her sheer white blouse cascaded flawlessly down her body, disappearing into the waistband of her black pencil skirt. The material clung on to her every curve, leaving little to his wandering imagination and igniting episodes from his wildest fantasies.

"I'm not liable because you woke up on the wrong side of bed, Sam," she shot back, scooping the scrambled eggs onto a plate. "I was making breakfast."

"Are you sure? Because it sounded like a bomb explosion."

"If you're going to just stand there and insult me all day, I'd rather you save your breath and resume your obnoxiously loud snoring—"

"What is that?"

Somewhere in the midst of tuning out her incessant babbling, Sam had noticed a brand new fixture on the kitchen counter, sitting on the surface as though mocking him with its sleek design and gleaming red coating. He glared accusingly at the appliance for a moment before diverting his discontent over to the other blonde in the room.

"My coffee maker." There was a mischievous glint—an equivalent to that of a scheming cat—in her hazel eyes, and a conniving smirk to match. Strategically, she held her cup up to her lips, rubbing it in with her steaming beverage.

"Where did you get it?"

She shrugged those delicate shoulders of hers in nonchalance. "It was a house warming gift from Brittany."

_Did she just say 'house warming'?_

"I didn't see it yesterday," he deadpanned, eyeing the machine suspiciously.

"I had it in my room."

_Yeah, because a freaking coffee maker belongs in the one place a person uses to sleep._

Well, not that it mattered, anyway. "Whatever, I can use some caffeine right about now."

Reaching into the cupboard for a mug, he positioned it beneath the dispenser and was about to hit on the button, when Quinn intercepted and slid in between him and a satisfactory coffee fix.

"Nuh-uh," she shook her head.

He furrowed his brows in confusions. "What?"

She stood defiantly in front of her property, arms akimbo, and if he weren't so preoccupied with her attitude, he would've enjoyed how the slight tilt of her head made her neck that much more alluring with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. "This is my coffee machine. Ask me nicely."

"Or else?"

"Your foul meter can start clicking at one."

This woman was a Nazi—or had been one in her previous lifetime—because surely as hell she didn't think that he was going to adhere to her uptight ways to dictate his form of courtesy. He was a full-grown man, for fuck's sake, not some three-year-old child, and he'd be damned if he was going to give her such a satisfaction—not even in those jaw-dropping black high heels.

"Well in that case," he began, faux sweetness dripping in his voice. "No, thank you. I'll just go get my caffeine fix somewhere else."

Shrugging her shoulders while trying not to appear too smug about it, she took another languid sip of her coffee. "Suit yourself," she chirped, and then perched herself on a kitchen stool to eat her breakfast while she read some kind of printed document.

He spotted a box of cereal—one of those bland high-fibered cornflakes—and decided he wasn't even in the mood to get picky over her sugarless choices. With the lack of caffeine in his veins, he was lucky to even be functioning properly. Begrudgingly, he fixed a bowl for himself before padding over to the living room to watch a morning cartoon, not really caring what she thought of it.

"Don't you have a job to go to?" she asked.

On the television screen, a yellow sponge was running circles around a pink starfish, nasally declaring that he was ready, but it was Quinn's voice that seemed to grate on his nerves like nails against a blackboard.

"Why do you care?" he replied through a mouthful of cereal, his eyes still glued to the programme.

"It is a precautionary measure to make sure that you stay employed enough to fulfill your side of this arrangement," she said calmly, albeit with a hint of condescendence. "I would very much appreciate not being thrown out of the streets because of your incompetence."

He craned his neck around to face her then. "I hate to break it to you, but this so-called 'incompetence' that you're referring to is the only option you have available, so I would tone down on the snarkiness if I were you."

"Whatever," she huffed. "I have better things to do than be the subject of your entertainment. I'm sure Spongebob there could satisfy you just fine."

The moment she had her back turned, he did the unthinkable and stuck his tongue out. Damn that woman and her uncanny ability to reduce him into a childish idiot. She was an infuriating minx, that much was clear, and apparently getting a rise out of him was her newfound hobby. Still, he blamed that tight skirt and how scrumptious she looked in that whole corporate office ensemble.

"Oh, and please don't forget to sweep and mop the entire apartment. That's an every day thing, by the way," she casually reminded him. "And you're on laundry duty too, and just so you know, I have a hamper ready by the door. Shouldn't be too difficult, right?"

"Wait, what?" he sputtered. "What are you talking about? Since when do I have to do laundry for the both of us?"

She sighed, propping a fist on the side of her hip. "Clause twenty-two," she began mechanically, as though reciting a boring lecture. "Always adhere to the roster. I thought you've read the agreement."

_I'm sorry, did you mean that fucking encyclopedia?_

He bit his tongue to prevent those thoughts from unintentionally spewing out of his mouth. "Yeah, but don't I get a say in this?"

Jutting her chin out in defiance, she scoffed. "No, you don't. I believe that as a primary tenant of the apartment, I get to decide the distribution of chores."

"You want me to sweep and mop the floor every day?"

"Do you have a problem with that?" she arched an eyebrow pointedly, almost daring him to argue his way out of this.

Determined not to show how much he desperately wanted to stab her with a pair of chopsticks, he plastered on his best winning smile.

"Not at all."

"Good then," she beamed triumphantly. "Glad we agree on something."

He only snorted in response.

"Oh, shoots!"

_Long live the 'no swearing' policy._

Averting his attention from the screen once again, Sam watched—amused—as Quinn scrambled around to locate something illusive, mumbling unintelligibly under her breath. Flustered, and slightly panicked, she disappeared into her bedroom, where the tumult continued in heightened streams. When curiosity got the better of him, Sam casually sauntered over to check out what the fuss was all about.

"What's up with you?" he asked, smirking as he leaned against the doorframe.

Her hazel eyes snapped up to meet his. "I need to use your phone."

_Oh, this is going to be good._

"Why?"

"Because you murdered mine, that's why," she snapped back, storming up to him. A few strands of hair escaped the tight hold of her scrunchie and fell over her forehead, looking so inviting that he had to resist the urge to push them away.

"Okay, just so I'm making it clear to you, your phone was a disaster waiting to happen. I was doing you a favor, so you're welcome."

"And should I just charge a new one to your credit card?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "I'd be nicer if I were you, especially since you need something from me," he informed her objectively, pointing a spoon in her direction. The lava was about to blow, he could tell, but she clearly was asking for a taste of her own medicine.

"Look, I don't have time for this, Sam," she ventured dangerously into his personal space. "I'm going to be late for my first day and destroy my career if I don't call a friend immediately."

His gaze fell on her luscious lips. "Then I suggest you consider that carefully the next time you decide to be difficult—"

"I'm not being difficult. I just need to use your phone for thirty seconds or so."

"Ask me nicely."

"Over my dead body."

He shrugged, and then made to turn back towards the living room. "Suit yourself," he called over his shoulder, mimicking her earlier words.

"Jerk."

"Sorry, did I just hear you say a bad word?" he taunted.

She blinked for a quick second before straightening her posture to a rigid pole. "No, I didn't. I said 'twerk', you know, that thing people are doing nowadays," she retorted before slamming the door in his face.

* * *

><p>The most interesting thing to happen during his shift in the book café was the dude sitting in the corner who kept repeating the same monologue over and over again. It had to be Shakespeare or another because his scant knowledge of English Literature was practically non-existent, not to mention the fact that he once slept through the entire production of <em>Hamlet<em> in high school.

"He definitely needs some new material," Sam murmured while drying the mug in his hands with a dishtowel.

Burt glanced up from working the register and chuckled. "Believe it or not, he's a regular during those Open Mike sessions."

"Does he have a name?"

"Biff something," the older man answered with a shrug. "I don't know. His parents had an apple farm, but he's trying to make a name for himself as an actor."

"Seriously?"

Sam eyed the idiot critically; studying everything from the cut of his immaculately styled chestnut-colored hair, to that preppy blue vest and blazer, those tailored trousers and spotless leather shoes, and snickered. Everything about Biff screamed of old money, of a fortunate childhood with mommy and daddy at the Hamptons, of yacht parties and private jets, and it was everything Sam loathed about privileged douchebags who were just full of themselves.

"He seriously needs some new material," Sam commented after Biff had launched into another round of reciting the same monologue. "I'm sure there's more to the story than music being the food of love."

"I guess we'll have to wait and see during the next session," Burt winked.

"Can hardly wait."

* * *

><p>"So how's your first day been so far?"<p>

Quinn collapsed down on the floor next to Mike with a weary pout on her lips. A hundred different adjectives came to mind where that was concerned, and after a really, really long day in the office, she could use a good vent.

"Let's see…" she trailed off, gazing up at nothing in particular as she sifted through eventful tropes that wouldn't cause to add to the bitterness that was already on her tongue.

"Ed gave me an orientation of the company, and then I was tasked to highlight a couple of dates and sort out a few files, made sure a couple of paperwork were signed by the managing partner—" Quinn paused to catch her breath, drumming her fingers against the side of her water bottle. "Help the paralegal locate a clause that was non-existent, to which she then pointed out my incompetence because apparently 'first day on the job' didn't apply to her, and then I spilled Ed's coffee all over the only expensive shoes I own, but luckily his executive assistant had an extra pair in her drawer, so I wouldn't look like an idiot during a client's deposition."

He was about to chime in when she held her hand up to silence him.

"Oh, but wait; there's more," she ranted on as she swiped a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. "Margaret from Human Resources wanted a copy of my transcripts, which, of course could only be obtained upon request from the dean's office. So when I called the school up, they told me that they needed three working days to process a piece of paper; seriously. I told Margaret about it and she flipped as though it was the end of the world and went on about hiring policies and company policies, and that I'm training to be a lawyer for God's sake—"

"Okay, slow down," Mike eventually cut in, reaching to rub soothing circles on her back. "Slow down and breathe, alright? You're going to work yourself up a heart attack."

She heaved a sigh. "As far as 'first day's go, it sucked balls."

Chuckling affectionately down at her, he slid an arm across her shoulders and tugged her closer to his. "It'll get better," he promised, dropping a kiss to the top of her head.

"I hope so," she grumbled. "Thank you for taking the liberty of e-mailing the address to me and attaching a map for reference, by the way. Was really handy."

"Seriously, you need to get a new phone."

"Are you sponsoring?" she quipped with an arched eyebrow.

"Yeah, you wish."

Frowning, she lightly elbowed him in his ribs. "You're useless. Sometimes I wonder why I keep you around."

He grinned roguishly. "Because you can't resist my stunningly good looks and my immeasurable charm."

She sighed dramatically, feigning a swoon. "Once upon a time."

"Anyway, listen, I have some great news for you."

With a groan, Quinn rose to her feet. "The last time someone said that to me, I ended up stuck with an ass-hat for a housemate, so that line has kind of lost its novelty."

Mike caught her wrist, tugging her back down to the floor. "Well, this is different," he said, a smile spreading across his lips, a twinkle in his eyes. Effortlessly, he lifted her onto his lap, trapping her in his arms. "Shelby Corcoran called earlier."

She felt her mouth go dry and her heart speed up. "She did?"

He nodded. "Beth has a school musical coming up and she has volunteered to direct it. She wants you to help choreograph the dance numbers." At her stunned reaction, he continued. "It's not a huge thing, more like a fundraiser for the school, and you wouldn't be paid much for it but—"

"Yes!" she squealed in delight. "Fuck, yes!"

"Yes?"

Quinn squirmed in his hold to grab onto the front of his shirt. "You told her 'yes', right?"

"Well, you could just call her up yourself—"

She shot out of the studio before he could finish what he had wanted to say.

* * *

><p>Somehow or another, the wonderful news had made its way to Rachel, who wasted no time leaving yet another bubbling voicemail on the studio's answering machine. It was beyond embarrassing, especially since nobody else needed to know that she was invited to attend a gig that she wasn't even interested in as a means of celebration. In fact, she had a whole line-up planned for the evening without Sam in the apartment—some girlie things that she reckoned were long overdue.<p>

_There's an unopened box of bath salts calling out for me._

"Sounds like you have some big plans tonight," Mike snickered, drying his damp hair with a towel.

She scrunched her nose up, her face pinched in annoyance. "You're coming with me; you know that, right?"

His smirk fell flat. "Why? I mean, I have some important stuff that I have to do and—"

"I wouldn't consider watching reruns on TV as important," she deadpanned. "I need you there, Mike."

He groaned. "No you don't. Rachel's going to be there."

Quinn rolled her eyes, growing agitated and not understanding why her best friend couldn't just grant her this one simple favor. "Yeah, but Rachel is a groupie."

His snort of laughter was so abrupt; he almost choked on his spit.

"Oh, God. Please don't tell her I said that," she mumbled, jabbing the heel of her hand over her eyes. "I don't think I want to listen to an elaborate speech about women stereotypes. That one unfortunate time in high school was enough."

Mike was still recovering from his spontaneous burst of humor, coughing and wheezing to catch his breath. "I still can't—groupie—that's—that's just—"

He was starting to grate on her nerves now, and that wouldn't do. She'd had enough of dealing with abhorrent gits the entire day; just this once, she needed a compliant companion.

_Is that too much to ask for?_

"Okay, you know what, never mind," she scowled, reaching for her backpack. "I'll just ask Ryder to accompany me, then."

"Ryder?"

She shrugged noncommittally, exercising her acting chops as best as possible to appear nonchalant. "Ryder Flynn, you know him. He works at that pastry shop down the street—really cute too, by the way—and he's been asking me out for the longest time—"

"But he's just a kid," Mike remarked.

"He's a year younger than the both of us, actually, and why do you care, anyway?"

He paused, and she watched in satisfaction as realization dawned on his features that he had been cleverly played. Appalled by her methods of manipulation, he glared at her a good deal before caving in with a conceding throw of his hands.

"Alright, alright, fine. Let's go."

* * *

><p>He was going mental, certain that he would lose his shit in the next eight minutes or so if the rest of his incompetent band mates didn't pull themselves together and get things done right. The café was already packed and buzzing with people, but half an hour before show time, they were still setting up the equipment; it was unacceptable.<p>

"Can somebody please find Puckerman?" he snapped, tightening the knob on the microphone stand. "He better not be fucking sleeping in the toilet or so help me God—"

"I'm on it," Finn volunteered, hurrying off.

A shrill noise pierced through the air, prompting him to wince in pain. Several patrons seated nearer to the amplifier grimaced in protest as Artie apologized profusely. Sam exhaled a long breath of air, puffing his cheeks out and carding his fingers through his hair, adding to the disarray that was already there. Over at the corner, Rory was otherwise occupied untangling a set of cables. The door jingled to signal the arrival of another customer, and then he was blindsided by a mop of dark brown hair, pleated skirt and a garish grin.

"Hi, Sam!"

He blinked, momentarily disoriented by the sheer brightness of her teeth. "Hi, Rachel. Glad you could make it. Finn said that you might be running late."

"Shelby was in a good mood," she explained chirpily. "Speaking of Finn, where is that fiancé of mine?"

No sooner had the question escape her mouth did said betrothed appear, utterly winded and flushed crimson. "I can't find him," he wheezed, swallowing gulps of oxygen.

"Hi, sweetheart," Rachel greeted blithely, completely oblivious to the awry situation as she stood on her tiptoes to drop a chaste peck to the drummer's cheek.

"You made it!" Finn exclaimed, all traces of distress washed away from his features. Reaching down, he enveloped the petite brunette in his meaty arms. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Sam couldn't hold back from rolling his eyes. "Alright, that's very sweet, but in case you've forgotten, Finn, we're in the middle of a crisis, so if it's not too much trouble, could the both of you please limit your flirting till after we're done here?"

"You're a fucking asshole, Sam," Finn muttered.

"Crisis?" Rachel parroted in concern. "What's wrong?"

"Puck's missing," Sam reiterated, not really sure what the purpose of repeating himself was. "We're on in fifteen and we haven't even done sound check. I don't suppose you know where he is, do you?"

For a Broadway actress, Rachel was a terrible liar sometimes.

"Rachel—"

At Finn's stern tone, she crumbled. "He and Santana are having sex in the back of her car."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sam flared up, startling a couple at a nearby table. "Honestly, those two fucking idiots. I swear I'm going to—"

"Quinn!" Rachel squealed all of a sudden, waving animatedly over his shoulder.

The mere mention of his housemate's name sent a fresh pit of fire broiling in the darkest depths of his patience. Instinctively, he felt the muscles between his shoulder blades tense, wondering what the hell that blonde pain in the neck was doing there. He hadn't invited her, he was most certain of that; definitely not after all those pesky chores he had to complete. Cursing his rotten luck, Sam squeezed his eyes shut to keep his temper in check.

"Glad you could make it!"

Of course, Rachel. After shooting an accusatory glare her way—one that she was unfortunately oblivious to—he reluctantly spun around to face the beauty of a wench.

_Just kill me now._

"Quinn," he acknowledged pleasantly, even as he stared daggers into her stunning hazel eyes.

She graced him with a tight smile. "Sam."

"Didn't know you were going to be here. I would've laid out a couple of bear traps."

The civility was exhausting.

"Mike, Rachel and I are celebrating tonight," she sniffed haughtily, and only then did he notice the Asian dude, whom, in his own opinion, was standing way too close to her. Sam seized him up, analyzing the other guy's level of threat. "If you must know. Frankly, I would've picked a better location to spend my evening besides listening to mediocre entertainment, but Rachel insisted, and Finn is a friend, so I've decided to lend my support."

"That's really nice of you, Quinn—"

"Can we skip the unnecessary pleasantries for later?" Sam interrupted his bandmate, the irritation seeping into his skin once again. "We have a gig to do, and we can't do it if we don't get all our stuff set up. Finn, could you go fetch Puck before they begin round three or four? And Rachel, if you would so kindly get out of our way, it would be greatly appreciated."

"Rude, much," Quinn scoffed and sauntered off.

For a lovely moment, he watched the sway of her hips, noticing how that particular pair of skinny jeans enhanced the gentle swell of her rear. Her movements were hypnotic, almost obnoxiously so, and if he didn't loathe her so damn much, he might have enjoyed the view a little bit more.

_Such a shame._

"Dude, are you checking her out?"

Finn jolted Sam out of his blatant ogling with a slap to his back.

"Not if she was the last living person on the entire planet."

* * *

><p>"They're actually pretty good," Mike commented, nodding along to the music.<p>

Up on the makeshift stage, Four Peas in a Pod were jamming enthusiastically, working the crowd in their favor as Sam belted out covers of eighties rock classics. The place was rocking, people actually seemed like they were rather enjoying themselves, and in all honesty, the only down side to the place was its lack of alcohol.

"They're okay," she shrugged half-heartedly.

"Okay?" Rachel exclaimed in slight horror, her inner fangirl shining through. "They're amazing! I don't understand why the record label thought they weren't ready."

"Seriously, though, Rach," Quinn scoffed. "Can you seriously picture Finn as a rock star?"

The brunette gave a wistful sigh. "I have him put on a pair of leather pants every night. It's a real turn on."

Mike looked traumatized for life, and Quinn really didn't need that mental image.

She was up to her third cup of coffee—the caffeine having no effect on her whatsoever—and she felt the beginnings of a headache throbbing in the back of her skull as Finn continued pounding on his drums. A guitar rift screeched in her ears, and as they launched into the chorus, she'd had about enough. Draining the last remains of her beverage, she made a move to leave, only to catch Sam's eye as he concluded the song, winking at her when he struck the final chord. There was a challenge in that trademark smirk of his, a silent dare that mocked at her self-restraints because he seemed to know exactly how his actions were affecting her.

Her temper flared, and in retaliation, she plunked her ass back on the chair, defiantly folding her arms across her chest to state a point. Lips set in a pout, she glowered right back.

"Insufferable prat."

"Did you say something, Quinn?" Mike asked, taking a forkful of his brownie.

"I'm just figuring out how many other ways I can kill Sam Evans with my bare hands, preferably in his sleep," she growled. "God, he's so full of himself too."

Rachel tilted her head, suddenly interested now that the topic had shifted into something juicier. "What did he think of your ingenious distribution of chores?"

Leaning back in her seat, Quinn rubbed the ache between her eyes. "Didn't work as well as I would've liked," she grumbled, feeling like a petulant child. "I half expected him to blow his top off but he barely put up a fight."

"Smart dude," Mike snorted. "Playing you at your own game."

"Whose side are you on, anyway?"

He only chuckled in response, reaching out to soothe her cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Don't be like that, gorgeous."

She swatted his hand away. "Ass kisser."

"Oh, my God, Quinn," Rachel blurted out all of a sudden, clutching onto her wrist in a vice-like grip. "Don't look now, but I'm sure that the guy over by the corner has been staring at you for the past half an hour."

"What guy—"

"I said don't look."

Mike did the honors instead. "You mean Mr. _Abercrombie & Fitch_ over there?"

Quinn's eyes bugged out of her head. "What?"

"Code red, Q, he's coming over," Mike informed her with a twinkle of amusement. "In three, two—"

She heard the clearing of a throat as a shadow fell upon her.

"Hi."

He had a smooth tenor, and a richness in his voice that same with practiced theatre projection, and she actually wondered if Rachel knew him at all. His trousers were starched and pressed to perfection in an awful shade of beige, not a wrinkle in sight, and she suppose she could excuse the hideous blue woolen vest when all it did was bring out the hues in his smoldering cerulean eyes.

_Oh, wow._

"Hi," she dumbly replied, struck by how incredibly handsome he was.

"I'm Biff McIntosh," he beamed, flashing his pearly whites as he extended his hand out, exuding an impressive amount of confidence that she surprisingly found attractive.

"Quinn Fabray."

"Lovely name," he drawled. "May I buy you a cup of coffee?"

She grinned, enjoying his bold ways. "Believe it or not, I'm on my third round of caffeine. Anymore and I'd be bouncing off the walls tonight."

"Dinner then? Tomorrow?"

"Sure. It's a date."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So there it is, and of course, the appearance of Biff McIntosh. He was such a douchebag in the 100th episode, but you can't deny that Chace Crawford is smoking hot. I'm starting to get the gears rolling again, get the hang of the style of writing for this story, so it should be smooth-sailing from here on! A huge thank you for those of you who have patiently waited for months for an update, and I truly hope that you're not disappointed. Cheers!

**Hugs and puppies all around:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and yeah, I love the sexual tension that's going on between Sam and Quinn because it's going to cause some really interesting dynamics between the characters. Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**OhHeyAl:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review, and I know that this update is long overdue, but I hope I hadn't lost you here! Thank you for being so patient, too! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Tomorrow will be kinder:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Carcar234:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! LOL! I love writing the sexual tension between Sam and Quin, and I'm glad you liked it! Cheers!

**Xvzgirl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Cheers!

**Guest:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Apologies for the long wait! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! As always, you've been such a wonderful motivation to my stories! Thank you so much for reading and constantly leaving a lovely review! I really appreciate it, and I really apologize for the incredibly long wait for this story! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Alli2345:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Apologies for the long wait! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Quams:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a wonderful review! I'm flattered, and I really appreciate it! LOL! I apologize immensely for the long wait! I'm glad you're enjoying all the sexual tension brewing between Sam and Quinn. They're such fun to write and explore, and I'm glad you liked how I portray their characters. After all, it is an AU fic, so I thought I'd play around with them a bit more. Oh yes, I like how you point out the fact that they really want to just jump each others' bones, and rest assured it'll happen :P Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Dosqueen67:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and I'm so sorry for the long wait! I really appreciate you leaving a review for the previous chapter! I'm glad that you liked the back and forth banter going on with Sam and Quinn. Seriously, those parts were fun to write! LOL! I totally deserved those three fouls you gave me, but rest assured, you wouldn't have to wait another year for the next chapter! It's full-speed ahead from now on! Cheers!

**Shannonpuckerman:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

**Bytheseashore:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and I truly apologize for the incredibly long wait, but I'm glad that you understand the struggles of loving a story too much and wanting to write the best for it! LOL! I love the sexual tension between Sam and Quinn; God, that was just so much fun to write, especially seeing these two characters pushing the boundaries while still teetering on the edge. Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Eternal-love59:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a lovely review! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter, and that you've enjoyed the sexual tension going on between Sam and Quinn! I had so much fun writing that, and their competitive nature just made everything so hilarious! They basically wrote themselves sometimes, but I'm so sorry you had to wait for so long for this update. Hope you've enjoyed it! Cheers!

**Thefchord:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and I deeply apologize for the incredibly long wait. A year is totally not acceptable, I know, but I hope this update sees you well! Well, honestly, it hadn't occurred to me what song Sam was composing, but I like your idea! I'll be sure to incorporate that in somewhere :P Cheers!

**Mandorac:** Hi there! Oh, my God, it's been way too long; I've missed you! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a long and lovely review! I totally understand your situation, being busy and all. I really apologize for the long wait, and I can't thank you enough for all the encouragement and motivations you've given me since the very start! I'm glad that you liked those scenes with Sam and Quinn! They're such fun to explore, and I just recently compiled a list of possibilities between them; it's going to be insane! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Can't wait to hear from you! Cheers!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a nice, long review! I really appreciate it! Again, I'm so sorry for the long wait; a year is insane, and there's really no excuse for that. Truly, I do miss watching Fabrevans on screen too, and it's just unfortunate how they took both characters of Sam and Quinn and made something else out of them. That's what fanfics are for, right? Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**SamEvans17:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and thank you so much for patiently waiting, and supporting me in my other stories as well! I'm really sorry for the overdue update, and I really hope you're not disappointed by this chapter! Cheers!

**Sara:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Hope you've enjoyed the update!

**OracleOfFanfiction:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review, and I truly apologize for the incredibly long wait! Don't worry, no begging needed, this story is still very much alive, and I can promise you that it's full-speed ahead from here on! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **So here it is! Chapter 11!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 11**

He might have strummed a little too hard on the guitar, wincing as it produced something ugly from his amplifiers. His fingers tripped over the wrong frets and stumbled through the last four bars of the chorus, and he just prayed that nobody noticed his slip-up. A sideways glance indicated otherwise when Finn glared pointedly at him behind the set of drums. Puck couldn't even be bothered hiding his amused smirk, that git.

Burning a deep shade of red from humiliation, Sam turned back to face the crowd, rejoicing in the fact that most of them were blissfully unaware of his distracted state. It was unforgivable—if he had been in the audience, he probably would've chucked a can of soda in disapproval—and he was about to double up on his efforts when his traitorous eyes unintentionally zoomed in on the creep suspiciously flirting on his blonde flatmate.

His mood darkened, his frown deepening as he spat out the final hook of the song. A smattering of applause followed after, accompanied by hoots and whistles, and when Puck closed their set with one last parting speech, Sam barely heard him, and altogether missed his cue to bow. It wasn't until Rory elbowed him on the side did he jolt out of the Jedi mind-trick glower he was sending the non-couple's way.

"Are you quite alright, Sam?" the Irish musician asked, leaning his instrument carefully down against the speakers. "You seem a wee bit with the fairies earlier."

Blinking, Sam turned to him with furrowed brows. "Wee what?"

"Preoccupied."

"Why couldn't you just say so?" he deadpanned. "It would save both of us the brain cells trying to understand your colorful expressions."

In a rare display of confidence, Rory folded his arms across his chest with a skeptical quirk of his lips. "You're skirting the subject."

"I'm not." That said as a parting remark, Sam stalked towards the counter where Burt was still manning the register while Blaine and Kurt worked the food and beverages. His wife had taken the night off—apparently she had no interest in music that didn't include a piano, a saxophone or a violin—but it was still quite a lot for three people to handle. "Hey, how are you guys holding up?"

Burt gave an exhausted smile but nonetheless looked pleased with how business was booming in one evening. "I think Blaine lost his bowtie somewhere in the warzone," he chuckled, and pulled out a stack of bills from his pocket, handing it over. "Here you go."

"Thanks."

"It was my favorite one, too," the film student piped in with a child-like pout that had Kurt giggling like a schoolgirl. "The white one with blood orange polka dots."

"It's red, Blaine," Sam retorted with a roll of his eyeballs and promptly vaulted over the counter in one smooth stride. Years of horseback riding and stumbling into an array of eventful troubles that spanned across running away from the cops to climbing into getaway cars provided an acute sense balance in his landing. After securing an apron for himself, he got to work, rinsing the plates and cups piling on the sink.

"You don't have to do those, Sam," Burt told him, even though it was obvious he was grateful for the extra pair of hands. "You're technically off-duty."

He shrugged. "It's the least I could do to repay the favor. I really appreciate you allowing my band to jam here, Burt. We could really use the exposure, especially with getting out our own material."

"You and your band brought this place to life tonight," Kurt chimed in, churning froth for a simple white latte. "I'd say it's a fair trade."

A burst of laughter rang in the air, cutting through the low buzz of the thinning throng of customers. It was getting late, and really, there was only so much coffee a person could consume before they started bouncing off the walls, but over by a rounded table were his blasted flatmate—the body whose hilarity belonged to—and her posse of friends. Finn had joined in, attentively listening in on whatever it was that Rachel seemed to be going on about—it could venture from the mundane discussions on the New York weather to the crazy antics of working under the very ambitious Shelby Corcoran, Sam wasn't bothered either way—and it hadn't escaped his notice how Count Orsino-wannabe hadn't moved his ass out of the door.

"Kurt," Sam called out from over his shoulder. "What's the four-one-one on Mr. Hair Gel over there?"

It took the barista approximately ten seconds before he understood whom the guitarist was referring to. "Biff McIntosh?"

"Yeah."

Kurt abandoned his post to join Blaine as they blatantly studied the group. "His family planted the first McIntosh apple orchard in Pennsylvania."

"Old money?" Sam asked, not knowing why that bit of trivia would be of importance.

"I guess you can say that. They get a nickel for every apple, and I'm not a math whiz but I suppose if you own a mansion on a private island named after your granddad, you're probably rich enough."

A low whistle escaped from between Sam's lips. "A private island? With a yacht and a jet?"

"Well, unless they all swam over—" Blaine began sarcastically, only to be silenced by three sets of eyes staring back at him. "Just saying."

Biff was talking now, animatedly gesturing with his hands, a million-dollar grin on his God-gifted face, that Sam found extremely annoying—given that he had been poked in the eye one too many times by Rachel's enthusiastic theatrics—and really, someone should just shut the idiot up, as if he had a smidge of personality beyond the words of Shakespeare. Scoffing, he switched his gaze over to Quinn instead, and scowled when he saw the near-smitten grin on her face—an expression so rare, he hadn't seen it before—that he reckoned he loathed, simply because all she ever graced him with was a deep-seated frown. He wouldn't stand for it, obviously; it was sickening to watch.

"Hey, Quinn," he called out, loud enough for the entire café to hear.

She snapped her head up, the smile disappearing instantly, and he could practically form the expletive that was itching to leave her tongue. "What?"

As best as humanly possible, he tried to mask his amusement. "You're coming home with me, aren't you?"

The scathing look she gave him could've wiped out the whole of Amazon, and then some, and in all honesty, it was jarringly terrifying to be on its receiving end. Her ample chest heaved in an effort to contain her emotions, and he was quite certain she had a morbid montage of ways to wring his neck, but all the more he challenged her with an unrepentant sneer.

"Don't you have plans after this?" she bit out through gritted teeth.

He shook his head and leaned his elbows on the counter. "Not at all," he replied smoothly. "But now that you mention it, I do have plans for us."

She arched an eyebrow, an obvious cue that he ought to zip it. "Oh, yeah?"

"I'm thinking that we should watch that movie we rented the other day, snuggle up on the sofa, and then you can come warm my bed." For extra effect, he threw in an impish wink that left no question to his lewd suggestion. "I'll even let you be on top this time."

Finn's spit-take made his day, truly, as the spray of coffee shot through the air, and then it burst into a fit of chaos as Rachel screeched and Biff fell off his chair in an undignified maneuver to dodge the unwanted projectile. In all that dissonance though, Quinn barely flinched—barely batted even an eyelash—and he wondered just a bit if he had gone too far. Vaguely he heard the uneven sputters as Biff took his leave and practically bolted for the exit. Then—and only then—did Sam relax enough to breathe. Utterly pissed off, now that her boy toy had left the building, Quinn stalked up to him with a gait of a predator.

"What do you think you're doing?" she seethed, a deep burning anger in her voice.

He stood up to his full height, his spine going rigid once again. "I was just trying to help."

She slammed her palms down on the cool marble surface, positively fuming. "Help?"

"That douchebag just wanted to have sex with you, and as I recall, per our housemate agreement, I would require ample notice—at least three hours in advance—should you choose to bring a companion over for the night—platonic or not—and even so, I have the choice to disapprove," he calmly reminded her. "You should thank me instead."

"Thank you?" she spat out.

"You're welcome, although I seriously doubt the depth of your sincerity."

She probably would've lunged at him if it weren't for the counter separating them. "For your information, Sam, Biff asked me out on a date. He wasn't looking for a meaningless one-night-stand, so thank you for nothing. I'll see you later."

With one last parting glare, she stormed out of the café in a whirlwind of a thunderstorm. When she disappeared from the view of the open windows, he waited for those triumphant fireworks of victory, only to be dampened by the matching chastising looks he received from Finn and Rachel.

"What?"

Rachel twisted her lips. "You're a real jerk, Sam."

He scoffed. "Whatever."

* * *

><p>Flaring, still boiling with rage, she slammed the door behind her, feeling the walls reverberate on impact, and cringed, hoping she hadn't caused any permanent damage. After a second of silent admonishment to think before she acted, the fury returned ten-fold, remembering that it was all Sam Evans' fault to begin with.<p>

_That ignorant bastard; who the hell does he think he is?_

She tossed her backpack carelessly aside and began pacing the length of the living room in hopes of dispelling the pent-up tension in her muscles. Her fingers curled into tightly clenched fists, and in her sour mood, she slowly calmed down. Mike's earlier words resonated in her head; a voice of logic, and for all intents and purposes, she knew that he was absolutely right. Getting all worked up would only play into Sam's hands because for some sick reason, he enjoyed making her squirm. There was no need to add fuel to the fire, not if she could help it. She inhaled and exhaled, envisioning a picture of serenity in her head, accompanied by the soothing tones of meditative chanting.

Gradually, her temper subsided, and even then, she was left with the jittery remnants of one too many cups of coffee. That fourth round of caffeine had been a terrible idea, but Biff had insisted and who was she to pass up on free cappuccino? She blew out a sigh, wondering why her ass-hat of a housemate couldn't simply mind his own damn business. That stunt he had pulled in the café was totally uncalled for, regardless of what his intentions had been.

Padding over to the kitchen, she retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge, and as she took a couple of gulps, the portable speakers on the countertop caught her attention. There was an unfamiliar iPod sitting on its dock, and she realized that it had to be Sam's. Her first instinct was to chuck it out the window, but as the screen lit up beneath the pad of her thumb, she was suddenly intrigued by what it might contain.

_What does a musician listen to?_

She scrolled through his playlist, snorting at a couple of sappy mainstream love songs that she could use for blackmail material, and noting how he surprisingly had a certain affirmation for jazz and Broadway. Then again, he was acquainted to Rachel Berry, and she wouldn't put it past the brunette to forcefully input a couple of those musical soundtracks to educate him on lyrical prose. She came to a folder that marked an archive of his demos and picked a random one to listen to.

Almost instantly, she recognized the song. The initial soft chords strumming on the acoustic guitar sparked memories from youthful years—those now-cherished moments where her mother would crank the stereo while she danced around making breakfast while her father grinned from behind his newspaper—and the nostalgic feelings settled low in the pit of her stomach. It ached just a bit in her heart, wondering where had all the good times gone, and when Sam's voice filtered through—his Southern twang more prominent, deep, sultry and husky, exactly how she had met him that first day—the song took on a strong Country quality that wouldn't have sounded quite so good—she begrudgingly admitted—had it been someone else singing.

Striding back to the common area, she didn't think before shoving the sofa and coffee table to the side, leaving copious room for a makeshift dance floor. Hit with a sudden rush of inspiration, she pulled off her boots and flexed her feet, warming up her ankles.

And then she danced.

* * *

><p>For everything else, he received an earful and a half from Rachel, which he strongly felt that he didn't deserve, but there was no stopping her when she started. Finn had been completely useless; knowing that his fiancée was about to go off on another one of her infamous rants, he had snuck off elsewhere and had left him for dead.<p>

_Good to know where his loyalty stands,_ Sam thought bitterly.

He stopped short at the door, hands poised to insert the key into the lock when he heard the familiar notes of a song trickle through the walls. Gingerly, he placed his ear against it and wondered why he was hearing his own voice. Blinking at the oddity of the situation, he carefully entered, being as quiet as he could with his less-than-stealthy self. Slipping in, it was painfully apparent that the music playing was indeed a personal recording that he had done some years back in his bedroom with only his beloved guitar for a chaperone.

However, it wasn't the startling discovery that had him frozen on the spot by the entrance; rather, it was the sight of Quinn Fabray spinning and twirling elegantly in the middle of the apartment. Her agile body leapt and stretched in the small span of space, her movements hypnotic, and each step falling in sync to the lyrics. Toes pointed, the muscles in her calves strained, torso pulled up, arms swaying, every step fully extended to the tips of her fingers, and her silky blonde hair dancing as if they had a life of their own. The breath hitched in his chest, and he was unable to tear his gaze away from the sheer poetry in motion. He knew, of course, that she was a dance instructor, but witnessing the extent of it was an entirely different experience altogether.

There was a pang of disappointment in his gut when the song came to an end, but she stayed—head bowed, eyes closed—and with a small hint of a smile on her soft, gorgeous features. The strap of his guitar bag slipped from his shoulder, piercing through the silence, and she jumped, startled.

"Jesus," she gasped. "When did you—I—I didn't hear you—why didn't you knock or something?"

He shrugged but otherwise stayed in place, afraid that he'd ruin the magical moment she had made in the apartment. "I do live here too, you know. Besides, you looked preoccupied; didn't want to disturb you."

"Oh."

"Were you just—you went through my iPod?"

She jutted her chin out impenitently. "It was left unguarded," she retorted defensively. "If you hadn't wanted anybody to fiddle with it, you should have kept it properly."

He raised his palms in surrender. "Don't need to bite my head off. I'm merely asking you an innocent question."

"I was curious," she admitted reluctantly. "And I wanted to know what kind of music you listen to."

"Huh," he remarked. "And you couldn't have just asked?"

"Hey, I wasn't—"

"I didn't say that I minded," he cut in before she could launch into another bitch fit. The one lecture by Rachel was enough to last him a lifetime. "You're a really good dancer. I'm actually honored that you found my singing charming enough to choreograph to."

Her cheeks flared red, a fleeting mix of emotions playing about in those expressive eyes of hers. "Yeah, well, thank you," she paused, forehead wrinkling. "I think."

"I'm not just saying that to pull your leg or anything," he murmured, words slightly garbled. "You really are a good dancer. Why are you even training to be a lawyer?"

"More money, I suppose."

His face darkened marginally. "You'd throw your talent away just to earn more money?"

She straightened, her back rigid—a gesture he identified as her battle stance—and her warm demeanor took on a different turn; closed-off and cold in a heartbeat. He realized a moment too late just how his words could've been misinterpreted, but knew that there wasn't a way to salvage the damage of an impending row.

"You of all people should know that it's a hard knock life out there," she spat out venomously. "New York City isn't the easiest place to survive in, and I do what I can with what I've got. Before you judge me, perhaps you should know that I'm running a school that caters to the less-fortunate children and aiding them in nurturing their talents. Most of them probably won't even end up in those fancy art schools because their parents can't afford it, but I try to help. I'm going to be a lawyer—the best damn lawyer Manhattan has ever seen—and I'm going to start a program to sponsor those kids to a proper education, and if you still think I'm throwing away my talent for money, you can suck it and get the hell out of here."

The silence and tension rang high in the room as she glared him down. For the second time that day, he was fucking speechless, but of course, apologizing isn't his strongest suit. He much rather ran from confrontations than admit that he was wrong.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry."

Well, there was a first time for everything.

He released a sigh, carding his fingers through the strands of his hair, mussing them up more than it already was. "It's just—there isn't enough artistic integrity in the world. I just don't want you to fall prey to the glamor of tall skyscrapers."

"Is that what you really think of me?" she growled. "That I'm some easy, naïve girl who can't differentiate between one thing and another?"

"I didn't say that," he sputtered, losing all semblance of composure. "Stop putting words in my mouth."

She took a dangerous step closer. "You insinuated that I was weak little girl."

"I made no such allegations."

"You don't get to have an opinion about my life, Sam Evans," she snarled in a complete rage. "We're not even friends. We're just housemates until we get our lives sorted out, so you don't get to swoop in and poke your gigantic nose into any of my business."

It dawned on him then, what was upsetting her.

"You're still sore about what happened at the café, aren't you?"

Laughing humorlessly, Quinn flung her hands up in the air. "Oh, my God. You're unbelievable," she declared. "This is about boundaries. I don't interfere with your life and likewise, that goes for you too."

And for the second time that evening, she walked away from him.

_You stupid, stupid son of a bitch._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, this is a relatively short update (well, shorter than the previous one, anyway), but it holds a certain development between Sam and Quinn that makes their dynamics a bit more interesting.

**Tea-and-Insanity:** Hi there! Thank you so much for sticking around to read and review my story! I really appreciate it, especially since it's been a long wait. Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**OhHeyAl:** Hello there! First of all, glad that you've enjoyed Neon Lights :) It was a fun prompt! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and your patience for an update on this story! I really appreciate it! The Sam and Quinn in this story is so much fun to play around with because they make for really good material to write. Biff is going to be an interesting addition. Obviously when I started this way back, there hadn't been a Biff McIntosh, but I reckoned it would shake up Sam and Quinn's storyline. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Burnthiscityxx:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a really generously long review! I really appreciate it! LOL! It's really no worries on not reviewing before. I completely understand how life sometimes gets in the way. I'm glad you liked jackass-Sam and constantly-pissed-off-Quinn! You summed them up perfectly, and I'm glad you picked up on the relationship between Mike and Quinn. Yeah, I mean, there are hints of their history, but like you've mentioned, I didn't want to dwell too much on that :) Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, as always! I really appreciate it! Yeah, I sort of missed working on this too, but now that I'm back and working on this full-force, it's going to be so much fun! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Nicole:** Hi there! I'll reply to both your reviews in one go :) LOL! Firstly, thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and thank you for being so patient in waiting for an update! I really apologize for the long wait, and I hope school is treating you better now. It's the school holidays isn't it? Hope you're having a well-deserved break! Secondly, thanks for the fun fact! Happy belated birthday! HUGS AND KISSES!

**SamEvans17:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and dropping a lovely review! I really appreciate it! Hehehe! I'm really flattered! I'm glad you liked the dynamics between Sam and Quinn. Things are definitely going to get a bit more interesting from here; I can't wait to explore all the possibilities! LOL! I'm glad you picked up on the chores portion because I've devised something hilarious for the next chapter (hint, hint)! I think the attraction is definitely there (don't want to give too much away now) and it'll definitely be an exciting ride with Biff on board :P Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**NileyOvergron:** Hello! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter, and the inclusion of Biff in the story! I love writing scenes where they bicker, and this chapter has a bit of line-crossing between them, things got heated and what not, but that's going to be interesting to see how it plays out in the aftermath. I can't comment so much on the sexual tension without giving too much away, so you'll have to stay tuned to see how that goes :P Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Guest:** Hi! Thank you for reading and reviewing!


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **Hi guys! Apologies for the delay! After the long wait, here's chapter 12!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 12**

It was unnaturally quiet in the apartment—suspiciously so, considering the riot he had awoken to the previous morning—and with a grunt, he flung the covers off his person, squinting against the sunlight as it filtered in and casted streams of warmth on his bare torso. Scratching at the spot above his navel, Sam rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and then grew still, straining his ears to listen for any signs of movement coming from outside.

Nothing.

The obnoxious banging sounds of pots and pans were absent from the kitchen; there weren't any pitter-patter of feet on the floor, or the punctuated clicking of Quinn's high heels—those amazing ones that he really didn't want to think about at the moment, what with him sporting the gleeful morning wood and all—and in reality, he didn't even know why he was part-mourning about it. Clearly, his flatmate was making good on her vow to stay out of his business, and in all honesty, after the stunt he had pulled in the café—coupled with the completely idiotic comments he had made after—he wouldn't blame her at all. If anything, she was probably doing them—or rather, him—a huge favor. This way, they were able to avoid all unpleasant situations and carry on with their respective lives.

_Fuck my life._

And then he had to remind himself that there was no loss to him whatsoever—that he wouldn't miss Quinn going about getting under his nerves, that he ought to bask in the moment—but then it occurred to him that he wouldn't be able to beat her in her own game if she wasn't even around to begin with. Flopping back down on the pillow, Sam draped an arm over his eyes, blocking out the glare beating down on his pupils.

_Right, new game plan, then._

His alarm clock went off all of a sudden, piercing through the tranquility, and absentmindedly he pitched one hand out to turn it off. Dispelling a long exhale, Sam contemplated on indulging in another well-deserved couple of minutes in bed when the ringing of his cellphone interrupted the trip back to dreamland. Reluctantly, he rolled over and reached for the rumpled pair of jeans that had been haphazardly tossed aside the previous night, fishing the offending device from inside its back pocket.

"Hello?" he croaked.

"Morning, sunshine. You do realize you're working the morning shift today, right?"

_What the—who the hell?_

"What?"

Burt heaved a sigh from the other end of the line. "You're late."

It took him a second to process the words before he bolted upright, snapping his head around to glance at the clock. The café opened an hour ago.

"Oh, shit!"

* * *

><p>She needed a bloody cellphone; preferably one that could do about a million different things at once and still function as a means to actually call somebody. Ed was nice enough about it—if rather sympathetic at that—and had even procured the company's credit card so that she was at least contactable one way or another. At her protests, he had resorted to exercising his authority over her, practically forcing her to get the fucking iPhone already. Quinn was sure it was unheard of for an intern; he must be really desperate, if the e-mails flooding in were any indication. How convenient was it for Gloria—Ed's executive assistant, even though associates didn't really get secretaries—to take the week off to fly back to Minnesota for a 'family emergency' too. Then again, perhaps she wouldn't be so bitter about it if she hadn't chanced upon Gloria's browser history and found the tickets booked to Los Angeles instead.<p>

_Bitch is probably getting a nice tan at the moment._

It arrived in a box on her desk three hours later, just after she was done with another client's deposition, and Ed had snatched it up and dumped it with the IT guys to fix her up on the necessary log in accounts and stuff that she didn't think she would need. Jacob—thick-rimmed glasses and curly out-of-control hair—had given her a patronizing look and an inappropriately scathing remark about her incompetence regarding technology, and she had the mind to flip him off—law firm or not—but Ed had whisked her away to gather the files for his next meeting with a promise that she would have the phone before lunchtime.

By eleven-thirty, the cellular was sitting primly next to her keyboard with a bright pink post-it note stuck to it. The chicken scratch on it was barely readable, but if anything, her time in the firm so far had taught her the art of deciphering illegible penmanship.

_You owe me lunch._

_-JBI_

Rolling her eyes, Quinn crushed the bit of paper in her hand and tossed it into the wastebasket. No sooner had she spun back around in her swivel chair did her screen light up with an incoming text message. Before she could even read it, however, the phone began ringing, her boss's name flashing for attention.

"Ed?" she answered almost immediately.

"Oh, good," he said, a trace of amusement in his tone. "Now that you're finally back in the 21st century, I'm out for the Cahill and Jefferson meeting, but you should already know that. Zachary Winston will be coming in at three. If I don't make it back by 2:30, could you call him to reschedule for tomorrow?"

She made a quick scribble about it on her writing pad, mentally running down his list of appointments. "You're fully booked tomorrow, though," she informed him. "Unless you want to fit him in for lunch."

"That will do," he replied, and in the background, Quinn heard the rush of the traffic. "The guy is a self-serving bastard anyway. There's no way I can sit through a meeting with him without a glass of scotch in my hands."

"Easy there," she snickered, already perusing her e-mails for the client's contact information. "I'm sure Melanie wouldn't want to have to hear about you drinking on the job."

He hummed. "Maybe I ought to just send that girlfriend of mine in my place to deal with Zach instead. She can dance circles around him and then perhaps he'll stop pestering me so much about that damn contract."

"I'll make sure Jeremy gets it signed today."

"You'd better," he quipped back good-naturedly. "Also, please don't call me if you need anything. Ask Donna; she'll know what to do."

"But Donna's—"

The line went dead; he'd hung up.

* * *

><p>"Sam, the gentleman by the bookcase still hasn't received his blueberry scone," Burt prompted over his shoulder as he worked the coffee machine to prepare a customer's cappuccino. "Have you taken them out of the oven?"<p>

"Damn it," he hissed under his breath. After a hasty apology to the kind-looking old lady in line, he abandoned his post at the cash register to dart into the kitchen. Grabbing an oven mitten from the counter, he retrieved the biscuits in a mad hurry and set them down to cool. "Where the fuck are the tongs?"

Eventually, after a full minute of mindlessly grappling about scouring through the drawers, he found one next to the sink, washed and ready for use. Releasing an entire thesaurus of profanities, he carelessly plonked one of the scones onto a plate before dashing out to serve it to the awaiting customer.

"Here you go," he panted. "Sorry for the wait."

The man barely acknowledged him; nose-deep in his novel—some pretentious French literature, by the looks of it—and sporting a hideous tweed jacket the shade of baby barf. Biting back a retort—something rude and definitely not appreciated, he reckoned—he spun on his heels and returned to the lovely lady now surveying the pastries on display.

"Alright, sorry for that," he apologized sheepishly. "It's a little crazy in here."

"Don't worry about it, young man," she told him with a dismissive wave.

"Look, why don't you have a muffin or whatever you'd like?" he offered, gesturing towards the delicacies. "It's on me."

She graced him with a smile and shook her head. "Oh, no, they look really lovely, but I should watch my sugar levels; diabetes and all that."

"Right, well, let me make it up to you, at least," he insisted. "What would you like to drink, then?"

"Just a cup of tea will do nicely," she replied. "Chamomile, if you have it."

"We do, in fact."

He brushed Burt aside to personally fix the lady's beverage, and then did the Southern gentlemanly thing and motioned for her to take a seat first as he trailed along behind her with the hot tea in hand. Because he couldn't resist it, Sam had even added a small oatmeal cookie at the side. She thanked him generously, blessing his heart, and in some way, it was reminiscent of his time back home. It was short-lived, however, when a group of students flocked in, full of chatter and wielding art supplies underneath their arms.

A groan resonated in his chest when they made a beeline for the counter.

Back to the flurry of activity, he rounded up the orders for the whole lot and began assisting Burt with the pastries and beverages. The redhead with a bob-cut and a striped scarf had wanted a blueberry scone—because it would be incredibly rude to outright deny her that—so Sam trudged back into the kitchen.

"Shit," he muttered for the umpteenth time since he woke up that morning. The baking tray had been left unattended on the counter, and he winced upon realizing his grave error in forgetting to transfer the biscuits onto the cooling rack. They had likely gotten soggy at the bottom from all the heat. "Burt is going to kill me."

An exaggeration on his part, but nonetheless the sentiments were the same. The damage had been done; he could at least try and salvage whatever he could from the situation. The ones in the center of the tray suffered the most, and so he did what he could with the ones at the edge, picking the best of the crop for Little Red Riding Hood. Burt was on his third cup of coffee—teenagers and their overly complicated concoctions—when Sam jumped in to help. Halfway through a soy latte, Blaine hustled into the café, fashionably dressed as always, a different colored bowtie around his neck.

"I'm so sorry," he blurted out, shoving his stuff in the cupboard underneath the counter. "Class ran late today and I was starting to think that my lecturer wasn't going to release us at all, but then this girl in my class eventually pitched a fit because she was going to miss her waxing appointment."

Sam chuckled, partially in relief for extra pair of hands. "I suppose some people are big on priorities."

"Oh, definitely," Blaine said with a smirk as he donned an apron. "Whose are these?" he asked, referring to the tray of food still by the cash register.

"Big group by the stage area."

The next half hour was tolerable at best, and yet, he still managed to screw something up. While he had been preoccupied with the scones, it had completely left his mind to defrost the chocolate chip cookie dough, and they were already running low in the jar.

"Sam, do we have the fresh batch of cookies ready?" Burt called out.

_Sure, if you'd prefer serving them raw._

There was a moment of hesitation staring at the slab of dough before he answered. "Well, not exactly."

Blaine appeared beside him a second later. "Dude—"

"Don't," he grumbled, peeling the cling wrap off. "Just don't."

"The scones look a little lumpy," the brunet observed, picking one up to inspect the underside. "A little damp too. Did you forget to take them off the tray and then placed them on the cooling rack a little too late?"

Not wanting to dignify that with a response, Sam instead pretended to be deeply engrossed in his task, lining smaller chunks of the mix into neat little rows. The last thing he wanted to dwell on was the shitty day he'd been having. It was as if the entire universe was conspiring against him—though that was nothing new in his feeble life—and appointing him the laughing stock for the rest of his existence. Surely there was a limit to the amount of idiocy one could have, or perhaps a get-out-of-jail-free card he could use and just fast-forward to the point where nothing else could suck anymore.

"You're a little distracted today," Blaine noted, jolting him out of his reverie.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," the other guy insisted; now staring intently at Sam's side profile, as though he was cracking an interesting case or dissecting his character. "You've been distracted since last night, actually, even when you were performing with your band."

"No, I haven't."

Frankly, Sam didn't understand why he was even trying to defend himself.

There was a significant pause.

"It's Quinn, isn't it?"

Reflexively, he stiffened at the mere mention of her name, his back straightening and his jaw clenching, wondering whether she would miraculously appear like the devil reincarnate and shower lightning bolts down at them. He wasn't exactly fearful of her per se—although 'terrified' could be used loosely in similar context—but there was still that underlying terror of her wrecking havoc to his person.

_She's going to be the fucking death of me._

"What about that lovely roommate of mine?" he retorted, words lacing with sarcasm.

"You tell me," Blaine countered, looking exceptionally smug. "You were the one who ruined her evening by being a massive douchebag. What was up with that?"

Sam gave up on the cookie dough. "The dude seemed like a dickhead. I was doing her a favor."

"No, you weren't," his co-worker chirped in once again to offer his two cents. "You were doing yourself a favor. It also makes you sound suspiciously like you actually care about her."

"That's preposterous," he scoffed. "The day I genuinely care about Quinn Fabray would be the day that I'd lost my sanity and fallen in love with her, and I suppose it's safe to say that it's never going to happen."

There was a speculative glint in Blaine's eyes that Sam didn't fancy.

"Never say never."

* * *

><p>The first chance she got—the closest thing to a lunch break she could manage—Quinn was able to drop a quick text message to Mike and Rachel, alerting them of her new means of communication. With a bagel in hand from her favorite cart down the street, she grinned when not a moment later, her cellphone began trilling along with the rest of New York City traffic.<p>

"I know what you're going to say, Mike Chang, and I don't appreciate it."

His breathy chuckle—coupled with the buzz of campus life on the other end of the line—could only mean that he was between classes. "It's always such a delight talking to you, Q. You done for the day, then?"

"As if," she snorted, and then wished she hadn't when she almost choked on a piece of her food. Coughing and sputtering like an utter idiot, she held the phone away from her face to clear her windpipe. Mike's hearty laughter resonated out of the speakers, ostensibly amused by her unglamorous feat. "I hate you," she wheezed pathetically. "You almost killed me with my own lunch."

"Lunch?" he snickered. "It's a quarter to four."

"Quarter to four, half past twelve; makes no difference on this side of the city."

"Right," her best friend replied indulgingly. "Anyway, I called because I just had to see—or hear—for myself that you have indeed ventured into the unknown and attempt to live like the rest of us—"

Rolling her hazel eyes, Quinn retorted with a huff. "Screw you."

"Already have."

"Okay, we're not going there again—"

"Also," he swiftly interrupted before she could nitpick on the subject and officially turn the conversation into something awkward. "I'll need you to cover for my class tonight. I have an assignment due tomorrow and the guy I'm working with is being a dick, so I'll have to pick up on his slack. I would've asked Brittany, but she's got to leave straight after her class to meet up with some important person or another and—"

"Fine," she conceded with a sigh. "Fine, I'll do it."

"You're a saint, Quinn," he said, relief evident in his voice. "Look, I've got to go. I'll call you later."

"Wait, Mike—"

For the second time that fucking day, the line went dead before she could finish; he'd hung up.

_Men._

* * *

><p>To say that he was surprised would be an understatement, but he didn't think any word could live up to how he truly felt when Biff McIntosh came sauntering into the café. Sam did the mandatory once over, sweeping his gaze upwards from those dreadful auburn loafers to that God-awful pair of maroon chino shorts and the un-tucked white-and-blue pinstriped button-down that should only look good in a fashion catalogue, but what did he know about haute couture.<p>

"Can I help you?" he more than curtly demanded, frowning when Biff strolled up to the counter with that hundred-dollar haircut.

"Yeah, you're that dude from last night, right? Quinn's roommate?"

Sam sniffed as he folded his arms across his chest. "I can neither confirm nor deny anything."

"Well, look," Biff paused to inhale a deep breath. "I'm hoping that you can help me."

His curiosity was piqued. Even so, he was still rather wary of the other guy and regarded him with close apprehension. "That depends. What do you need help with?"

"It's Quinn."

It was purely on reflex when he winced, and then wondered if it was just an affliction to her name alone or the miniscule part of him that was conflicted by the thought of actually throwing the guy a bone. "No can do, man," he said, trying to at least sound apologetic about it.

Biff's chiseled face fell. "What? Why not? You don't even know what I need help with."

Propping his elbows on the countertop, Sam leaned forward with narrowed eyes. "I'll do my best to reconsider, but I make no promises."

The frustration was clear as day on Mr. Posh-and-Preppy's features, and Sam was itching to know what the final straw would be to properly set him off. It would make for a perfectly comical picture for sure, and all of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to do just that—rile him up, ruffle his feathers and test the limits of his patience—even if it were for a bit of a lark; a new hobby of sorts recently. For that, he blamed it on Quinn Fabray.

_Still, doesn't hurt to have some fun._

"Alright," Biff began, clearing his throat. "I'm not sure if you were aware of it, or if Quinn mentioned it to you, but I asked her out on a date last night and she agreed."

There was something akin to a needle prick to his heart that he refused to acknowledge.

"So what's the problem?" he snapped and grabbed the nearest towel to forcefully wipe down the immaculately cleaned marble surface.

"We sort of forgot to exchange numbers," he blurted out in one long exhale. "Or rather, we didn't manage to before the unfortunate ordeal—"

_What a fucking idiot._

He probably didn't need to slam the cloth down, considering it never did anything to offend him, but he needed to channel his exasperation on something or another that didn't involve Biff's perfectly straight nose. "Why didn't you, then?"

"I guess it slipped my mind, okay?" he shot back, now flustered at his own stupidity. "I mean, can you blame me? She's absolutely gorgeous. She's perfect; surely you've noticed it—"

Shrugging his shoulders was the only option to that statement.

"And every time she laughed, the place seemed so much brighter—"

_Excuse me while I go puke rainbows._

"Is there a point somewhere in your ode to Quinn Fabray?"

"Do you have her number?"

This time, there was no stopping the rude bark of laughter from escaping his throat.

_Am I back in the fucking nineties? Or worse; am I in junior high all over again?_

Biff was affronted and fast losing his cool, if the pinched-up expression was any indication, and clearly didn't appreciate that his innocent request—debatable by Sam's standards—was being surly mocked by another man. Nevertheless, the guitarist took pity on him and eased up on his guffaws.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—" he chivalrously sobered up, although unrepentant at that. "You're shit out of luck, though, because unfortunately for you, she doesn't own a functioning cellphone."

"What are you talking about? Everybody has a cellphone. It's not the dark ages."

Who would've thought they'd be bonding over Quinn's lack of technology.

"She's out of sync with the world, apparently."

Biff leaned in. "You're not screwing around with me, are you?"

He arched an eyebrow; unable to believe the dude had the gall to doubt his credibility as his stance took on a defensive turn. "And why would I do that?"

"You were rather keen on driving me away last night."

_So that's how he wants to play it._

Refusing to rise to the bait, Sam calmly riposted, "and how did you deduce that, exactly?"

"Come on," Biff muttered with a roll of his stereotypical blue eyes. "You don't think I'm that stupid, do you?"

_That depends…_

Before he could actually vocalize his thoughts, though, the other guy had continued. It was a rhetorical question, apparently. "Look, I know you're protective of her, and I can assure you that I don't have any ill intentions towards her. In fact, all I want is—"

"Hang on," Sam interjected. "Let me make this perfectly clear for you: I'm not protective of Quinn. Truth is, I don't even like her that much and last night was just an attempt to piss her off. Whatever the hell your intentions are with her, I don't give a rat's ass, but as two people living together, we do have ground rules. I'm just making sure she hadn't forgotten about it."

"So, you don't mind me asking her out?"

"I don't," he reassured, a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. "Time and place; I'll pass it along to Quinn."

Biff appeared satisfied enough, if a bit reluctant, and Sam plastered on his most trustworthy look. "Eleven Madison Park at 7:30?"

_How nice; he's flaunting his money._

Nodding his head, Sam replied, "she'll be there."

_Or not._

* * *

><p>Physically and mentally exhausted, Quinn had to practically drag herself up to her apartment. She desperately needed a good hot shower, feeling disgustingly manky after two back-to-back classes. Fishing for her bunch of keys from her backpack, she cursed Mike's existence for putting her through that after a long day in the office, already planning the hundred and one ways he could make it up to her—one of them being to drop off the face of the planet—and when she entered to the nasal droning of Miley Cyrus, she had resigned herself to an evening of excruciating misery.<p>

_You're fucking kidding me._

"Please tell me that you don't actually enjoy listening to this crap," she bit out snarkily, tossing her stuff haphazardly on the kitchenette counter.

Sam's mop of blonde hair peeked out from where he was perched on the couch, slumped down with his feet propped up on the coffee table. She had absolutely no clue what the hell he was doing, but when he craned his neck around to acknowledge her, the pair of thick-framed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose caught her completely off guard, and for the life of her couldn't figure out why. His fringe fell over his forehead in a tousled curtain; a lopsided grin on his full lips, and she caught a glimpse of the papers in his hand.

"Well, hello to you too," he crooned.

"Just shut it off, please," she grumbled, moving over to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. "Or change your choice of singer, at least."

"Why?" he blinked, too innocent to pass off as believable. "I was here first. I get to choose what I want to listen to."

She sighed, already feeling the beginnings of a headache throbbing at the back of her skull as she uncapped the drink. "Okay, whatever."

"What are you doing home so early, anyway?" he inquired with a tilt of his head. "Did the date not work out for you?"

"What date?"

He made a motion to glance down at his wristwatch. "That date with Biff-the-Apple-Guy. I'd sent an email to you about it this afternoon."

Her hazel eyes bulged in realization. "You're 'CactusAtticus memail. com'?" she shrieked.

"Who did you think it was?" he asked, seeming genuinely confused.

She slammed the bottled water down on the counter, now completely mortified. "I thought it was that creepy guy from the IT department!" she screeched. "What—why did you—I can't believe that—I actually stormed up to his cubicle and basically told him to shove it in front of the entire department. Oh, my God," she gasped, drumming her fingers against her temples. "No wonder he was staring at me like I'd gone insane."

"Really, Quinn?" Sam snickered. "That poor guy—"

"And you!" she fumed, pointing a digit accusingly at him. "How could you?"

He held his hands up in surrender. "I was merely relaying a message."

"You accepted a date on my behalf!"

"You're welcome."

"Who does that?" she sputtered out, animatedly gesturing about in the air. "We've established our boundaries. You were supposed to butt out of my business."

Jumping to his feet, Sam crossed the space to stand directly in front of her, eyes narrowed. "Well, then perhaps your boyfriend shouldn't have visited me at the café to ask for your number. He wouldn't believe me when I told him that you didn't communicate via humanly ways like the rest of us on Earth, so I thought I'd do him—and you—a favor instead. Don't blame me for your own stupid mistakes."

"Don't even—"

A knock on the door cut her mid-sentence.

She glared daggers at him. "Did you bring company over without—"

"And risk a foul?" he scoffed. "Sure, Quinn, I invited Father Christmas over for some milk and cookies."

_Asshole._

"Sarcasm not appreciated."

Still visibly miffed by her roommate's utter lack in social norms, she marched over and flung the door wide open to find the one person she hadn't been expecting.

"Biff!"

Startled, she reared back, slightly tripping on her feet, but catching herself just barely before she could fall flat on her bum. Holding on for dear life on the wooden panel, she shoved the strands of hair out of her face and lamented on the fact that she was still sticky from the remnants of sweat on her skin. In all history of bad timings, this one rated high up together with a couple of others from high school—that may or may not include an inopportune moment during her prom night—and instinctively, she ran a conscious hand down her tank top.

"What—what are you doing here?" Her features scrunched up in befuddlement. "How did you even know where I live?"

"You stood me up."

It wasn't a question; more a statement, and only then did Quinn notice the impeccable way that he was dressed—a pair of polished burnt sienna wingtips, pressed trousers, sky-blue Oxford with the top button undone and a cobalt pinstriped blazer—before registering the stormy, unimpressed expression on his stunningly handsome features and the way he had his arms folded across his chest. He wasn't pleased at all, and she had half the mind to drag Sam by his hair and dump him out of the window. It was his fault, after all.

"Erm—I—I'm sorry. I didn't—I wasn't even aware that we had plans," she confessed and swept her hands down her body. "I just got back from class, actually. I really had no idea—"

His frown deepened. "Didn't Sam inform you?"

"I did," her housemate's voice chirped from the common area. "Sent her an email at work."

"Yeah, well," she struggled to form a coherent sentence, unsure why she was stuttering so much. Since when was she a blabbering mess in front of a guy? "I didn't know it was him, and even if I did, I already had prior commitments—"

"But I asked you out last night and you said yes," Biff pointed out. "Did you actually forget about that or was it just a polite thing—"

"No," she rushed to correct him. "Honest to God, it slipped my mind, and I really didn't mean to. In my defense, I didn't think the invitation still stood after what happened with you running out of the café and—"

"You could've called—"

"I didn't have your number!"

"The both of you should try exchanging letters instead," Sam piped up annoyingly. "It has proven to be a fail-safe method of communication."

Quinn pressed her lips together in a thin line, her fists clenching at her sides as she resisted the temptation to go over and strangle him with her bare hands or slap the smugness off his boyish face. With her gaze still locked on the man standing in front of her, she inhaled a steadying breath and willed her patience to last just a little bit longer.

"Listen, Biff," she began. "I'm really sorry for the trouble and the miscommunication. I'll make it up to you, I swear. You have that Open Mike session tomorrow down at the café, right?" At his curt nod, she continued. "Tell you what; I'll cancel my class tomorrow—Mike owes me one, anyway—and I'll meet you there. We can have supper or coffee after. But hang on—"

Darting over to her backpack, she returned with the brand-new cellphone and grimaced when Biff arched an eyebrow. "My boss," she offered as a means of an explanation, not caring to elaborate much more than that. "This should be easier than exchanging letters, right?"

He took the device from her, and with a quirk of his lips entered the series of numbers before handing it back to her.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then," he murmured, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Rising on her tiptoes, Quinn dropped a chaste peck on his cheek, a promise and an apology all in one.

"Tomorrow."

* * *

><p>He could barf.<p>

Especially when she turned around with that disturbingly dopey smile on her face. It thankfully faded the instant she caught him leering. Her posture turned hostile and rigid; the battle stance, and he knew he was in for it again. They were inevitable like that; doomed to only converse in scathing remarks and biting repartees.

"That went well."

He was sure it sounded rather condescending to his ears, and if he cared to admit, a tad bit acerbic, but he would deny the traces of jealousy, if there were any.

"I beg to differ," she rebutted. "That was a car crash waiting to happen."

"You're so dramatic."

"And you just never listen, do you?" Quinn shot back, moving towards the kitchenette once again. "Stay out of my business; it's not that difficult."

"Are you going to penalize me for that, then? Give me a foul for trying to help?"

She threw her hands up in the air. "You actually deserve it."

"I was trying to help," he insisted, wondering why he was still involving himself with this. "My intents were nothing short of noble."

"Against the rule that we had agreed upon just last night."

"So you're not going to consider the fact that I wasn't deliberately trying to mess with your love life?"

"I think you know that I'm not going to do that."

There was no rationalizing a future lawyer; he wasn't going to win this one, so it was best that he cut his losses and take the high road to preserve whatever manly ego he had left in his person. He would get her the next round, he was certain of that. With an entire list of ammo in his possession, he would make her run screaming bloody murder from the apartment. Pulling his shoulders back, he took a dangerous step forward, the counter the only thing standing in their way.

"Fine, if that's how you want to play it."

Impressively, she held her ground, staring him head-on.

"You wouldn't stand a chance, Sam Evans."

"Don't be too cocky, Quinn Fabray. Tomorrow's another day."

Her pouty lips twitched into a smirk.

"Indeed."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, Sam is one up on the Foul Meter, which means he definitely needs to catch up. Wonder what he'll do to make Quinn crack, though?

**OhHeyAl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and being so patient with this story! It should be moving along steadily now, so hopefully the next bit wouldn't take so long. Anyway, I'm glad you've enjoyed the addition of Biff so far! He's a really fun character to use and play off of, especially between Sam and Quinn. I know that it's a bit unexpected that Sam would received a foul point so early on, but that's definitely going to act as a catalyst for their game :) Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**NileyOvergron:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review, and also for being so patient with me! I glad that you liked 'Jealous Sam' because he definitely makes more of an appearance in this chapter! He's such an asshole, isn't he? LOL! Yeah, I mean, obviously there are underlying attraction—and reasons why Sam is so jealous—and it might not happen so soon, you know, but I'm sure you know that the inevitable will happen. Hope you've enjoyed this overdue update! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and being so patient with me! LOL! Yeah, Sam was a real douchebag in the café, and the way he handled the situation was rather immature and irrational, but I suppose that's what Quinn does to him—makes him crazy—and I'm also glad that you liked the more tender side of the previous chapter, with Quinn dancing to Sam's music. There's more yelling, of course, and Sam received a foul for what he did, but that just means that Sam would definitely up his game! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Dosqueen67:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving reviews for both chapter 10 and 11! I really appreciate it, and how you're patient with the overdue updates! I'm glad you liked the chemistry between Sam and Quinn—or that I somehow made it work—and yeah, I was hesitant when I put an insinuation that there was history between Mike and Quinn, but I reckoned with Biff, it's going to be fun to play with (considering how he's so easily disposed, but that's just between us). That said, you have nothing to worry about with Mr. Perfect. He's already not-so-perfect in this chapter (and you didn't hear this from me) but he's about to get not-too-perfect in the next update :) Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hi there! Wow! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a wonderfully nice review! I really appreciate it, and also how you've been patient with my stories and updates! I'm glad the short chapter did you good :), short as it might be. Well, I'm glad you picked up on the jealousy in Sam's behavior. It's obvious, apparently, to everybody, and even Biff noticed it, so he was doing a crappy job and trying to hide it. That said, I suppose this chapter gives more depth to Sam's 'feelings' towards his flatmate that resulted in him earning his first strike. He really knows how to rile Quinn up, and I can assure you that it's going to escalate into some interesting situations from here on. I wasn't sure whether or not to add that scene where Quinn was dancing to Sam's music, but I reckoned they both needed a breather. The 'talk' they had was a necessary evil, even though it resulted in an argument because, like you've mentioned, it does give the characters a bit more depth and dynamic, especially for them to understand each other and the reason for their struggles with money. Anyway, hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Guest (1):** Hi there! Thank you for reading and reviewing! Glad you like the story so far! Cheers!

**Guest (2):** Hello there! Thank you for reading and reviewing! Glad that you're excited for the story! It's been fun writing it! Cheers!

**Bartmanskubs:** Hi there! Thank you for reading and leaving a review! Glad that you liked the story so far! Cheers!

**Happiness. is .key:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and thank you for the wonderful comment! Well, I don't think this story will stretch all the way to 50 like Whisper in my Ear, but I'll probably stretch to 30, I would reckon. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Guest (3):** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! LOL! Well, truthfully, I can't wait to get to the part where they do fall in love, because it's going to be hilarious and so much fun to write! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**QuinnEvans:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and thank you so much for your patience as well. To answer your question: Shelby isn't Rachel's mom, and Beth isn't Quinn and Puck's daughter. This is entirely AU and has nothing to do with the original Glee storyline. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**ficmonsteR:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and being so patient with the story! I'm glad you liked it so far, with the jealousy and all the bickering they do. Well, I don't want to spoil anything, but there will be a chance that Quinn might be the jealous one in the future :P Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **Did you guys miss me? LOL! First of all, I'd like to apologise for the extremely long wait and an overdue update! It's a little crazy at the moment, and I'm a perfectionist, so it took a lot of reading and re-reading it before I'm truly satisfied. Anyway, here's chapter 13!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 13**

Sam watched another kernel of popcorn sail through the air before it disappeared into Finn's open mouth. The obnoxiously exaggerated chewing action that followed soon after was the final straw. With a grunt, he leaned forward to confiscate the bowl from his fellow band mate's lap, scowling when the other guy made a noise of protest.

"I'm cutting you off," he practically growled.

"Dude—"

"No more goofing off, alright?" Sam admonished as he glared pointedly around the group, feeling as though he was babysitting a bunch of preschoolers who were antsy from all the candy. "We have a week and a half to nail this fucking song, and you guys are just sitting on your asses and pigging out on the couch?"

"You can't rush creativity, Sam," Puck snorted and took a swig of his beer, despite it being barely eleven in the morning. "A good song takes time and delicate handling."

"Well, that sucks because we can't afford those right now," he retorted sassily. Hopping off the loveseat, he began restlessly pacing, one hand buried into his shaggy blonde hair. It was in need of some serious trimming, but that could wait another day. "Surely one of us has something we can work on."

"What about you, Sam?" Rory asked while adjusting the strings on his guitar. "Any ideas?"

He paused in mid-stride, looking thoughtful for a split second before visibly deflating. "I do, but I don't think it's going to be enough."

"What do you think we're lacking in the first place?" Finn mused out loud, once again digging into the bowl of popcorn. "Sue mentioned something about finesse and identity, but what did she actually mean by them?"

"Frankly, I think they're just big words and bullshit those producers throw around to sound fancy," Puck piped up. "I wouldn't even call it constructive criticism."

"Every lad and lass I spoke to after the gig actually liked our songs," Rory offered. "I don't think we have a real problem. Maybe what we need is the right song—that hit that we always talked about."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "We need something different than what everybody else out there is already doing. 'Mainstream' was the word Sue used, and honestly, I agree with her. Right now, we sound like a hundred other bands; we're nothing special. We need to break out of our comfort zones and find something that makes us unique."

"You want us to move in a different direction?" Puck arched an eyebrow skeptically. "Create a whole new sound?"

"Well, think about it, guys," he implored, plopping back down on the seat that he had previously vacated. "We can't be playing at bars and cafés all our lives. We're in this for the long play. What's the point of going back to Sue with yet another song that's going to end up sounding like the first one? A change in tempo and lyrics isn't going to impress her. She needs to know that we're serious about this."

"So, just to be clear," Finn managed between rude mouthfuls of the Styrofoam-like snack. "You're saying that we do a complete one-eighty? Switch our genre?"

Puck decided to contribute to the party. "What about the integrity of our group?"

_Why does everything have to be so dramatic?_

"We don't have to switch it completely," Sam replied, stifling an exasperated sigh because his friends were being ignorant fools. It was a miracle how they even managed to get anything done most times. "We'll just have to experiment a bit, you know, find more sounds; expand our musical vocabulary, if you will."

"Okay, look, Sam," Finn spoke up as he wiped the grease of his fingers on his denim jeans in a way that made Sam cringe. He was such a child like that; what did Rachel ever see in him? "I'm all for expanding all sorts of things, but that's for when we're fucking about and taking a piss. You don't substitute the star quarterback with a rookie before the big game."

The roll of Sam's striking green eyes could be seen all the way from the other side of the planet. "I appreciate the analogy—as I'm sure the rest of us did too—but I feel that it's a big risk I'm willing to take. If anything, it'll show Sue that we're not a band stuck in our ways."

Rory raised a hand to rub the nape of his neck. "I don't know, Sam…"

"We could just end up making an epic fool out of ourselves," Puck muttered sullenly, his usually-cocky demeanor giving way to a rare display of uncertainty. "Maybe we should just stick to what we know. Better safe than sorry, right?"

"Hold up," Sam jumped to his feet again. "I can't quite believe what I'm hearing. You guys are just going to give up now, before we even give it a shot?"

Finn raised both his palms in a placating gesture. "Look, Sam, it's the most rational way to go about this—"

"This isn't about being rational," he lashed out, the cord finally snapping. "Success doesn't just come by doing what everybody does. It's about being different."

"Where's all this coming from, anyway?" Puck crowed humorlessly; somewhat indignant at the notion. "Did you just wake up this morning with a sudden flight of fancy? You're forcing an idea onto us without giving ample time for consideration. It's fucking bullshit, Sam."

Sam's bottom lip jutted out in a frown. "Bullshit?" he spat out. "I'm trying to help us, here, alright? I don't see anybody else contributing. If any of you have any better ideas, I'm all for listening to it. If not, then I'd rather you reserve the negative remarks or aim them where they'd serve a purpose."

"Hey, what's that supposed to—"

"This is getting heated, lads," Rory jumped to his feet, hands raised to play the predictable role of a mediator. "We shouldn't be arguing about this right now. We're at a crucial point here, and we need to come to an agreement."

"That's nice, Rory, but—"

"One day," the Irishman continued, completely ignoring Sam's attempt at reverting attention back to himself. "We'll take one day to think about Sam's idea and then we'll cast a vote and decide tomorrow morning. Fair enough?"

There was a short pause for consideration, promptly followed by a series of nods and a round of unenthusiastic acquiescence. Sam was still rather miffed about his band mates' utter lack of faith in themselves and in his effort to jolt them out of their creative funk. They had one final opportunity to impress Sue Sylvester, and there was no way in hell he was going to allow the group to fail. Then again, the chance was slim to none if they were at separate ends of the stick, and Sam sought to rectify it before the situation got out of hand.

He heaved another sigh. "Look, I get that we're all comfortable in our skins; we understand our sound and we know what we like as a band. However, what we have right now isn't good enough. We need to stand out."

"What if all we need is a change of image and look?" Finn munched on thoughtfully. "I mean, we did meet Sue in jeans and T-shirts and button-downs. It didn't exactly spell out 'rock stars', did it? Some minor tweaks on the sound shouldn't be too much of a problem. Perhaps we can even use the same song and freshen it up a bit; give it a bit of spice."

Three faces gaped back at him, slack-jawed and almost in disbelief at his sudden strike of brilliance. It wasn't that Finn was an idiot; quite the contrary, he could be smart when he wanted to. Unfortunately for him, though, those spurts of ingenuity didn't come by often, but when they did, those ideas were pure gold.

"What?" he mumbled through a mouthful of popcorn.

All at once, the guys pounced on him, knocking the bowl off his hands and sending kernels flying at every which direction. Masculine gestures of pride were exchanged—fist bumps, noogies, a slap to the back of his head, and a playful punch to his stomach—and the tension dissipated like it hadn't been there seconds ago.

"Alright, alright," Sam broke the impromptu hoots of joy to steer them back on track. "Enough of that. We need to figure out how we're going to project a new image. I mean, fashion isn't exactly our thing."

"But you're pretty trendy, aren't you, Puck?" Rory motioned to the man's get-up of black denims, a plain white T-shirt and a leather vest.

He arched an eyebrow and glanced down at himself. "Santana put this together for me. Told me that I look enough like a hobo to dress like one."

"So, why don't we ask Santana to help us out, then?" Finn suggested with a shrug. "I suppose we could all use a bit of a makeover."

"Won't Rachel want to have a say in that?" Puck quipped back teasingly. "Which colors bring out your eyes, which cutting is the most flattering, what to avoid, which socks would match your boxers—"

The hoots and snickers that followed were ruthless, and even though Sam was an active participant, he was at least a bit sympathetic for the guy. Sure, Rachel Berry tended to venture into knitted vests, high-waisted skirts and knee-length socks, and looked like she received her catalogues from the _Clueless_ movie, however, for some strange reason, her efforts were largely invested in Finn's appearance. He couldn't even get a haircut without her hovering about ensuring that it was the right length and the right style, which was a moot point because his hair had been the same since high school.

"Okay, okay, let's lay off him for a bit," Sam admonished. "And no offense to Santana's expertise in fashion, but I think I'd rather not want to look like Puck 2.0."

"Hey!" he protested. "What's wrong with how I look?"

"Doesn't it itch in all that leather?" Finn wondered out loud. "Like when it gets hot? Especially, you know…down there…with pants."

"Can you be anymore articulate, Finn?" Sam drawled, full of sarcasm.

Puck scrunched his nose up incredulously. "Why do you think I wear denims instead?"

"What if she wants us all to have Mohawks?" Rory commented, looking petrified and slightly queasy at the idea. "My mother is going to disown me. She'll think that the devil's got me."

The circle grew silent; metaphoric crickets chirped in the background. Of all the ridiculous things spoken that day—Finn's earlier idiocy included—that had to take the cake.

Sam blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"She's very religious," Rory added offhandedly.

"Well, you don't have to worry about giving your mom a heart attack, Rory, because this Mohawk is a Puckerman original. Nobody else can rock it as hard as I can," he scoffed, popping the collar of his jacket.

"Why don't we ask Quinn? She seems to get the whole image thing down to a T."

His neck nearly suffered a whiplash as he glared at Finn.

"Over my dead fucking body."

* * *

><p>After sending a quick text message to her boss, informing him that she was out on lunch break, Quinn slung her purse over her shoulder and practically sprinted for the lift lobby. She only had an hour and she needed every last second she could afford. Human traffic was a massive pain in her ass—it was New York City, after all—and after a hefty amount of skillful dodging and a feat of acrobatics, she managed to duck into the subway with her hair unharmed and clothes still wrinkle-free.<p>

The train was packed, and she had half the mind to drill her pointed heels into the feet of the pervert who was standing behind her and failing to be discreet about sniffing her hair. Two stops later, she was in Lower Manhattan; right on schedule. A few blocks down brought her to a quaint little hole-in-the-wall diner, and the heavenly aroma of freshly-baked pizza that wafted out beckoned her growling stomach. She found a decent booth in a neat corner and sat down to wait, hoping that she wouldn't smell of cheese and pepperoni when she returned to the office.

It didn't take long until she spotted Shelby Corcoran entering the joint and waved her over. The woman, a tall and lean brunette, strode over with a wide smile, a bounce in each step and reached out to give Quinn a quick hug before sliding into the empty seat.

"Oh, this is lovely," she remarked. "Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me, Quinn, knowing how busy you are."

The blonde gestured dismissively with her hands. "It's no bother at all, Shelby. I'm glad I'm able to help with the fundraiser in any way I can."

"Beth was really excited when I mentioned it to her," Shelby chuckled with a slight shake of her head; remembering her daughter's reaction, and instinctively, it brought warmth spreading across Quinn's chest, imagining the cute little girl she had come to grow very fond of. "She can hardly wait."

"Do you know what the musical's going to be?"

"I do," the stage director replied, a hint of a mysterious glint in her eyes. "And you're going to love it, but maybe we should order some food first, then I'll tell you all about it."

"Sounds perfect."

* * *

><p>"Sounds dumb," Puck blurted out, strumming the last chord. "What does that line even mean? 'Manifesting like a heartless burn?'"<p>

"What's wrong with that line?" Finn protested, his voice rising defensively. "It's fancy."

"Heartless burn?" Puck snickered. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

The band's drummer huffed indignantly. "It's a metaphor! Cold and ruthless."

"What was wrong with the original lyrics?"

"It's bland," Finn retorted. "'Being dumped like a bucket of ice' is literal; it sounds like a hormonally angsty teenager."

"That's the point, dude."

Sam knew that it was time he stepped in again. The day so far had been nothing but disagreements and non-productivity, and his patience was already stretched thin. If he had to go through another round of baby-sitting, he reckoned he might check himself into an asylum, go Goth and probably drown his miseries in bourbon and scotch; or perhaps an equivalent that was less dramatic. Even so, his tolerance for their childish banter was at its maximum capacity; he needed a break, and to get his ass to the café for his shift.

"Okay, quit it you two," he barked, rising to his feet. "I need to get to work. Try not to kill each other."

* * *

><p>Mike didn't even bother hiding his mirth when she entered the dance studio, doubling over in howls of laughter until she marched over and promptly shut him up with a hard thwack to the back of his head.<p>

"Looking very corporate, Fabray," he snickered. "Did your driver drop you off in a Lexus?"

"Shut up, Chang," she grumbled, plopping down next to him on the ratty old sofa. Heaving a tired sigh, Quinn kicked the high heels off her aching feet and wriggled her stiff toes, hoping to get the blood flowing again. "We had an opposing council in the office who refused to back down even though they were clearly at the losing end. It was like watching a baby pleading for a cookie before bedtime."

Arching an eyebrow, he then motioned for her to turn around. Knowing what he meant, Quinn wordlessly angled her body so that he was faced with her back. "That's definitely a colorful way to put it," he intoned as he placed his warm palms on her shoulders and began kneading at her tensed muscles.

Instantly, she melted into his heavenly touch, her eyes closing and her head lolling forward. His fingers were glorious, working the knots dexterously and in no time, she was reduced to a putty mess. An involuntary moan escaped her throat as his thumbs worked wonders on her pressure points.

"You ought to start paying me for my services," he joked.

"Do I get a friendship discount?" she quipped back drowsily.

"How about a lifetime membership instead?"

Quinn shrugged, only half listening now that she was completely relaxed. "Works for me. Now, less talking and more doing, please."

"Yes, ma'am."

They basked in the comfortable silence that followed; her occasional hum or whimper of encouragement the only signs that she hadn't fallen asleep.

"Why is it that every time I find you two, you always have your hands on each other?"

Quinn peeked up through her lashes to find Brittany leaning against the doorjamb, one fist planted on her hip and regarding the pair of them with a mix of pointed judgment and mild curiosity. The soothing circular movements between her shoulder blades ceased. From the close proximity, she felt Mike stiffen before he slowly retracted his hands.

"Hey, Britt," he chirped with forced cheerfulness as he pulled away. "Getting ready for class?"

"That's one way of stating the obvious," she deadpanned, rolling her eyes. "I have a small problem, though."

Quinn tilted her head. "What is it?"

In all seriousness, Brittany said, "I might have lost a sock."

Three pairs of eyes zeroed in on her feet; one covered and one bared, toenails painted with a coat of hot pink polish.

"Just one?" Mike echoed skeptically.

"I was taking my shoes off, and I remember having both socks when I was putting them on, but when I took them off, there was only the right side left."

The once-couple exchanged glances, both already accustomed to Brittany's quirks and random bouts of gibberish. It took a bit of delicate handling most days, and barely anything most people can comprehend, but years with the blonde had them reading her like a book.

"It's probably still stuck inside the left shoe," Quinn patiently told her. "Have you checked?"

Brittany paused to contemplate on her actions. "You know, you're right." She made to leave, only to hesitate for another second. "I can't remember where I left my shoe."

"It might still be in the studio," Mike chuckled at her endearing qualities.

"Right!" she chirped before skipping away.

"She's really something special," Quinn mused out loud. "She once told me that if a guy spills coffee on me, he's going to be the father of my child."

Mike's face contorted in confusion. "Why would she say that?"

"Well, do you remember that day when Sam spilled coffee on my top…" she trailed off, hoping he would put two and two together and figure it out.

A metaphoric light bulb went off in his head and he burst out laughing. "Speaking of, how is the roommate coming along?"

"Oh, don't even get me started," she groaned, reaching for her backpack to retrieve her dance attire. "He's about the most obnoxiously self-centered jack-ass I've ever had the misfortune to meet. You wouldn't believe what he did yesterday," she fumed, the tension rolling back into her muscles at the mere mention of Sam Evans.

Quinn had been fortunate not to bump into him that morning when she left for work; she was about as determined to get rid of him in her life as much he was trying to meddle in hers. She had been so wound up, in fact, that she had spent an ungodly amount of hours tossing and turning in her bed just drawing up creative ways to smother him in his sleep and be done with it. Granted, she currently had the upper hand in their little deal—with him earning a foul while she was still in the clear—but she was well aware that at the other side of the wall, he was most certainly cooking up ways to snap her wits. Their game had just gotten serious, and she had to let him know that she meant business.

"What did he do?"

"You remember Biff, don't you?" she began, and at Mike's nod of affirmation, she continued. "Well, between him sort of asking me out the other night and Sam being the massive jerk that he was, we haven't managed to exchange numbers—"

"Technically, you didn't have a phone," Mike reminded her. "It would've been pointless anyway."

"Hey, whose side are you on?"

He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry. Please continue."

Quinn rolled her hazel orbs even though she felt marginally pathetic now that he mentioned the tiny discrepancy. "Since there was no way of contacting each other, the date kind of fell into the wayside. Then, you needed me to cover for your class, and because I didn't know that I supposedly have plans, I obviously said 'yes'."

Mike's interest was piqued. "Supposedly?"

"I arrived home only to have Sam wonder why I wasn't on a date with Biff—one that he had rudely accepted on my behalf, mind you—and it came as a rather pleasant surprise when I found out that he not only set me up without my knowledge, but he had indeed informed me about it via email." Her words were speeding up the longer she ranted, merging into one long incoherent babble. "Who the hell uses email to notify such important things? It's not my fault that I mistook his idiotic address for the geek down at the IT department. He could've just freaking called the office!"

"Whoa, chill out, Q."

"And then Biff showed up at my doorstep, wondering why I stood him up, and I looked like a mess!" she soldiered on as if the other guy hadn't said anything. "So overall, I had to apologize for Sam's incompetence and—oh, my God!"

Mike reeled back from her sudden outburst. "What?"

"I promised Biff I would cancel my class today and attend his Open Mike session," she scrambled to locate her brand new cellphone. "And I haven't texted him at all today, so he must think that I've forgotten and—"

"Quinn!"

She was effectively rendered immobile when Mike's strong hands were clasped tightly on her shoulders, halting her flurry of movements. Staring at him, Quinn was certain she looked like a crazy person. It wasn't normal; she was usually sufficiently calm and composed in a stressful situation. She didn't know what it was about Sam Evans that drove her sanity off a cliff.

"Chill. Out," he repeated, his dark chocolate eyes twinkling with mirth. "Breathe. I'll cover for you tonight. I do owe you one, don't I?"

She dispelled a long exhale. "Thank you so much, Mike."

"I just hope that for your sake, and for the sake of the rest of the patrons in the café that Biff isn't doing Shakespeare."

Quinn visibly cringed.

_I hope so too._

* * *

><p>The Open Mike session was about to commence and Sam had yet to catch sight of his housemate. Quite unfortunate that the one thing he desperately wanted to forget was the same thing he had been thinking of since he began his shift; it was inconvenient at best because it was doing things to his concentration. In a span of an hour, he had a total of four mix-ups in the orders and it was earning him some looks from Burt, not to mention Blaine, who seemed to be watching him like a hawk as of recent.<p>

He was fixing someone's cup of cappuccino when Biff came up to the counter, wearing what could be a half-hearted attempt to mask a defeated expression. A smidge of confidence that came embedded into his person seemed to have faded since his arrival at half past six—a good hour and a half early—and Sam was conflicted between pretending he cared and pretending he wasn't curious.

"You okay, dude?" he asked.

Biff glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall. "Do you think she forgot?"

It didn't take a genius to figure out whom exactly the guy meant, and again, Sam found himself conflicted between decisions. Morality issues were internally debated—he wasn't dumb enough to subject himself to another potential foul from Quinn Fabray—and so with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, Sam slid out from behind the counter to serve the beverage to the bookish brunette at the corner drowning in notes and textbooks. She barely acknowledged him, much too immersed in her studying to notice anything else in the world.

"Do you think I should call her?"

Sam suppressed a sigh. "Advice is the last thing I should be giving you."

"But she did promise me last night, didn't she?"

With a roll of his eyes, Sam returned to his station. "Yes, I was there. Unfortunately."

There was a moment of silence that followed, but just as he thought that Biff was done with his twenty questions, the other guy piped in with renewed interest.

"What's the deal between you two, anyway?" he asked, leaning against the counter. "You're roommates and you don't get along?"

Sam snatched up a rag and began wiping down the surface even though it was spotless. "We try to stay out of each other's business."

"Look, I'm sorry if I got you into trouble last night." He sounded so sincere in his apology that Sam reckoned he could try and cut him some slack, even if he was a bit of a bratty douche with his Abercrombie & Fitch steam-pressed button-down and khaki-colored trousers. "I mean, I know you were just trying to help, and I really appreciate it. In fact, hey, why don't I stick up for you? I'll let her know that it was all my idea and that way, she won't chew you out for it."

_If she even shows up._

"Don't worry about it, alright? Quinn and I are—"

"Biff!"

Heads swiveled as a gust of blonde breathlessly skidded to a stop just shy of crashing into the counter. Sam watched on in amusement when she gathered her bearings and carelessly flicked strands of hair out of her flushed face.

"Sorry, I'm not late, am I?" she managed between gasps of air.

If Biff was a puppy—possibly an eager golden retriever—his tail would be wagging high in the air. The sheer brightness in his grin could power up the entire country, let alone New York City. Infatuation worked on him the same way meeting Santa Claus was to little children, and frankly, Sam found it a little embarrassing, if not a bit worrying for Biff's manhood. All Quinn needed to do was bat her eyelashes and he was a goner.

_Pathetic mortal._

"No, you're not late at all," Biff gushed. "In fact, you're perfectly on time. I'm glad you could make it."

"Yeah," she nodded, her tone wavering. "It was a little crazy in the firm, you know how lawyers are."

A couple of days living with the gorgeous blonde were enough for Sam to detect even the faintest traces of disparities in her moods. It was probably an acquired skill, given that he was now in a precarious position, and it didn't escape his notice that Quinn wasn't exactly spilling the truth. Whatever the reason, he wasn't about open his mouth and cause some unnecessary problems in his life.

"I'm glad you're here now," Biff burbled on just as the lights in the café dimmed. "I should go get ready. Why don't you grab a seat? Coffee's on me."

"Ten bucks say that he's doing Shakespeare," Sam smirked.

Quinn turned to glare at him. "Go be a jerk somewhere else, Sam."

"I would, but I work here."

"Whatever," she muttered. "Can I have an espresso? And I suppose you can put it on Biff's tab."

He scowled. "This isn't a bar, Quinn, and your cheap date doesn't own the place."

Grumbling underneath her breath, she pulled out a couple of crisp dollar bills from her purse and slapped them unceremoniously on the counter. On the makeshift stage, Blaine was making introductions, and just for kicks, Sam took his own sweet time fixing her hot beverage.

"Why'd you lie to him?"

She arched an eyebrow, automatically on defensive mode, and he knew he had struck a nerve. "Excuse me?"

"You forgot, didn't you?" he gazed pointedly at her, letting her know that he wasn't the least bit fooled. "Your boy toy was freaking out that you'd stood him up again, and you actually forgot about it."

"I didn't forget," she hissed. "And he's not my boy toy. Would you stop it?"

He chortled, thoroughly enjoying ruffling her perfectly groomed, uptight little feathers and passed the mug of coffee over to her. "In my honest opinion, this sucks for a first date. Nothing says 'romantic' like listening to a guy recite a monologue that he didn't even write."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask for your opinion," she snapped. "Besides, it was my idea. I'm sure that if I had actually showed up yesterday, our first date would've been to a lovely jazz bar and then a nice walk back to the apartment—"

Sam burst out laughing as she glowered menacingly; he couldn't help it. "You're delusional, woman," he said. "He was going to take you to Eleven Madison Park in his dad's fancy Porsche—"

"Even better," she retorted with a huff before turning gracefully on her heels and stalked off to find a seat just as Biff stepped into the spotlight.

Sam folded his arms across his chest and fought against his basic instinct to preen in satisfaction from knowing what was to come. Blaine sidled up next to him, mirroring his stance.

"This is going to be good," he murmured.

Biff cleared his throat, the sound echoing off the speakers and he lifted his chin, pulling his shoulders back and staring thoughtfully out into empty space. Darting his eyes across the room, Sam found his roommate, an encouraging smile on her face.

"If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so…die."

Blaine cracked up, slapping his palm over his mouth to stifle the volume.

The corner of Quinn's lips fell into a frown.

"That strain again!" Biff heaved an exaggerated sigh. "It had a dying fall. O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound, that breathes upon a bank of violets, stealing and giving odor."

Almost as if she had sensed his silent taunts, Quinn whipped her head around, her blazing hazel eyes piercing through his green ones.

"You owe me ten bucks," he mouthed.

She looked positively murderous.

"Enough; no more," Biff bellowed. "'Tis not so sweet now as it was before."

_Oh, I completely disagree. 'Tis sweeter now than it was before._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Finally! So I've finally gotten this chapter out of the way; it took way too long, but it should be moving along more smoothly from now on. Thank you guys for being so patient! Just a little trivia: Twelfth Night is my favorite Shakespeare play, so I've decided to add it in!

**RJRRAA:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and I apologize for the long wait! I'm glad you liked the previous chapter! To answer your question, Mike and Quinn _used_ to be in a relationship. They're obviously really good friends now, and perhaps Mike might have a bit of lingering feelings for her, but don't worry, he's not going to be a hindrance in this story. It's just a layer I added into the story. Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Dosqueen67:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm so sorry for the really overdue update! I'm glad that you've enjoyed all the angry passion going on between Sam and Quinn. It's kind of like one big roller coaster ride, and it's going to climb before it drops. I really enjoyed that scene where Sam catches Quinn dancing to his song; it was one of my favorites to write :) Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**OhHeyAl:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Apologies for the long wait! I'm glad you enjoyed Sam and Quinn's antics; their scenes together are always a hoot to write! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Nicole:** Hello there! It's been a while! So sorry for the long wait, and thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Truth be told, I haven't been watching Glee for a really long time, and I actually have no clue how the series finale actually went, but we all mostly like Glee for the characters and not the storyline, right? I can understand your dislike of Biff, and basically, his character is a bit of a plaything for me; kind of like a pawn in this story. I don't want to spoil anything, but I guess it's safe to say that they would definitely slip up somewhere in the future; I'm just dragging it out for now because there are still so many aspects of both Quinn and Sam to explore. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Guest [1]:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and thank you so much for the lovely comments! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Guest [2]:** Hello there! Thank you for reading and reviewing, and the wonderful comments! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**FabrevansFTW:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and I'm glad you loved the previous chapter! LOL! I loved writing and playing out that entire scene; how Sam was trying to 'help' Biff and Quinn only to have it backfire completely. It's kind of like an ambush; he never saw it coming! Feelings are a complicated thing because it's multi-dimensional. There are so many reasons to Sam's feelings; it could be that he does fancy her some but his ego is refusing to acknowledge it. Or it could be that he finds her extremely frustrating, but she was just so beautiful, it was near impossible not to be intrigued. So anyway, whatever his feelings are, I'm glad you enjoy how their journey is unfolding! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Guest [3]:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such lovely comments! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far! Cheers!

**ficmonsteR:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! That particular line was a nice touch, mostly because we ALL know that he's so totally going to eat his words, which makes it hilarious! Apologies for the long wait! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Guest [4]:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Guest [5]:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad that you've enjoyed the interactions between Sam and Quinn, because they were so much fun to write about! Your observations on their characters are spot on! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Apologies for the wait!

**ShayverideFan:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a lovely comment! Glad that you've enjoyed the story thus far! Cheers!

**Clara:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, especially seeing how you read 12 chapters in one go. LOL! I'm glad you like the story so far! Apologies for the long wait! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Zalavi0309:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I apologise for the long wait! Discontinuing this story has never crossed my mind once! I'm also glad that you liked WIME! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Exgleek:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! Apologies for the long wait, also considering that there aren't any Fabrevans sexy times at the moment, but trust me, I would love to provide you guys with those, but it wouldn't seem logical at this point in the story. Definitely in the future, though! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: **Hi guys! This is definitely a much faster update than my previous chapter, lol! I just had a bit more free time at the moment, so yay!

Enjoy!

xXx  
>CeruleanBlues<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Housemate Agreement<strong>

**Chapter 14**

_Kill me now, please._

"So," Biff chirped as he plopped down onto the unoccupied seat next to her with a fresh cup of coffee, and almost in reflex, Quinn plastered on the most radiant smile she could muster. "What did you think?"

It had to be a trick question; where would she even begin? Could it be the twenty-minute-long act he had recited word for word? Perhaps it was the cringe-worthy ways that he had tried to be a passable Viola without sounding utterly creepy, only to stumble through his rendition of a drunkard British Sir Andrew that ended up being more Scottish than anything. At least his efforts weren't a complete waste. There was a semblance of polite laughter from the audience, even though she hadn't missed the way Sam was trying his hardest not to double over in loud obnoxious cackles.

"Everybody really seemed to enjoy it," she offered, deciding to take the cowardly way out of answering him.

"I know, right?" he chattered on. "It's pretty amazing."

_I'll say._

"What—what made you choose to do Shakespeare?"

He bounced in his chair, still high on the adrenaline from his performance—a sentiment that she could identify with, considering she was a dancer—and practically knocked the coffee table over with his fidgeting knees. "It was a hit the last time!"

"But isn't an Open Mike session's supposed to be about expressing yourself and showcasing your works?" she pointed out.

Biff only shrugged his shoulders. "It is my own interpretation of a good play, so I suppose it was me expressing myself and showcasing my talents. When I did that balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet that other week, everybody thought it was a hoot!"

_I'll bet it was._

Her face was growing stiff from grinning too wide, and she regretfully wondered if it had only been his gorgeous smile that had blinded her to his lack in personality. It wasn't that he didn't have any; it just wasn't what she had expected. In her defense—and whilst she might seem a tad bit shallow—Biff had been a rather stand-up guy the other day. His charms and God-gifted looks even had Rachel, Finn and Mike in his corner; she wasn't sure if she found this side of him disconcerting or simply bizarre.

A change in conversation topic was in order, hopefully something that wouldn't be too devastating to the evening and/or her first impression of him. After all, the man had gone through quite a bit of trouble just to ask her out again. Surely he wasn't a lost cause, even if he was a little on the quirky side, and it was still their first date.

"So Biff," she began, threading her fingers together. "What'd you like to do in your free time?"

"Sail on my family's yacht, spend some time on our private island or maybe take the jet to Brazil. It gets a bit boring after a while, you know, with being the only child, but I suppose I can't really complain, right?"

Quinn nodded; her suspicions confirmed. Ever since she had taken one look at his designer clothes and felt the confidence that only came from having a very privileged childhood, she knew that he was someone who wouldn't shy away from his wealth. Coupled with the fact that Sam had mentioned that Biff had intended to bring her to one of New York City's finest restaurants—in a Porsche, no less—before she had inadvertently stood him up, she reckoned she had a pretty rough idea where his monetary status was.

Unfortunately, no matter how lovely those expensive dates would be, she wasn't one to be easily impressed by them. Perhaps she had seen one too many rich snobs around—one too many rich frat boys in her life—that him flaunting his money wasn't going to settle it for her. She was far more interested in a man with a semblance of intellect; someone who challenged her, someone who wasn't going to treat her like a prized possession and parade her around at his parent's gala auction.

A flash of movement over Biff's shoulder caught her attention. Her eyes slid over in time to see Sam catching the microphone stand in the nick of time before it could tip over and injure a customer. His co-worker, a well-groomed dude wearing a bow-tie, was apologizing profusely to the stunned group of girls, promising a complimentary beverage for each of them. Smirking with a tiny shake of his head, Sam calmly continued coiling the wires.

"Quinn? Quinn!"

She blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"I was just saying that you should probably cut Sam some slack," he chuckled, suddenly sheepish. "He really was just trying to help, and he's your roommate. It's probably tough living together if you two don't get along."

Quinn narrowed her eyes, wondering where this sudden burst of loyalty came from, because she was quite certain that Sam wasn't Biff's biggest fan, especially with how her roommate had acted two days ago.

"You're defending him?"

"Well, he did try to help me—"

"No, he wasn't," she retorted heatedly. "He tried to sabotage our first date."

Biff tilted his head, skeptical to her accusations. "Why would he want to do that?"

"Look, it's a really long story, and I really don't want to talk about him tonight," Quinn said, wanting to dismiss the subject and move on with the evening. "Let's talk about something else."

"Alright, sure," he thankfully agreed. "What's your favorite color?"

_Oh, God, seriously?_

"Yellow."

In truth, she didn't really have one.

When she didn't elaborate any further, he continued. "How long have you lived in New York?"

"I moved here right after I graduated from high school," she explained and took a sip of her cold espresso, if only to keep her hands busy. "Me, Rachel and Finn actually, we're all from a small town in Ohio."

He drank from his own mug. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"Growing up in a small town. What's it like?"

She paused to think about it. "Quaint. Everybody sort of knows everybody; it's definitely different from being in the big city like this. What about you?"

"My family has an apple orchard down in Pennsylvania, so going back and forth into the city isn't too difficult, but my mom was insistent she wanted me to get the best education available, so she whisked me off to boarding school."

"What was that like? Was it tough?"

He smirked. "No way! Going to boarding school is like, every guy's ultimate dream," he gushed, beaming nostalgically as he reminisced on his glory days. "It was basically one big party; no curfews, no nagging parents, all the booze and babes—"

"Sounds like fun," she drawled, masking her grimace. "Kind of like college, then."

"I wouldn't know," he shrugged again. "I didn't do the whole college thing."

"But you mentioned the other day that you were an aspiring actor. Didn't you go to an art school then? Tisch, probably?"

He scoffed, almost as if she had said something utterly ridiculous. "Talent can't be taught, Quinn. Besides, what's so difficult about being an actor, anyway?"

_Looks like someone had an extra shot of cockiness in his cereal bowl. Rachel would be rolling in her grave if she were dead._

"You know, Rachel works in the theatre."

"Like stage work?"

"Yeah—"

"I'm not exactly a fan of theatre," he groused, scrunching his nose in distaste. "I mean, it's boring and it lacks the excitement of what you see on screen—"

_Is this guy for real?_

"How can you not be a fan of the theatre?" she exclaimed dubiously. "You just did a whole act from Shakespeare."

The confusion was evident in his boyishly handsome features. "Romeo and Juliet was from that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes, and I thought Helena Bonham Carter was so pretty as Olivia in Twelfth Night."

Quinn wanted to slap her forehead at the sheer idiocy of the guy who knew absolutely zilch about literature and arts, and yet was a self-proclaimed aspiring actor. "They don't have television in the 1500s, Biff."

"1500s?"

_Fuck, just kill me now._

* * *

><p>The café was closing and the place was practically empty. Sam was drying the last of the cups, but there was still two dirty ones still sitting on the coffee table between Quinn and Biff, and he couldn't understand why they were both still glued to their seats when it was blatantly obvious that his flatmate was about ready to die from boredom.<p>

He wouldn't deny that he had been stealing glimpses and eavesdropping into their conversation any chance he could, for entertainment purposes, of course, because it was tremendously hilarious to watch the play of emotions on Quinn's face every time Biff made a dumb comment. The dude was a prick; shallow and obtuse, and Sam wondered how it was that she hadn't taken off running for the hills.

Then again, Quinn was nothing if not resilient, and although a smidge of his humanity wanted to relieve her of her misery, he was still wary of how she would react. Another foul just wouldn't do; he was already at a disadvantage, but all he wanted was for them to hurry up and just leave. Kurt had given him the honorary task of locking the place, and he would be damned if neither of the last two remaining customers couldn't take a hint nor be on their way.

With a huff, he shuffled over to the non-couple.

"We're closing, guys," he informed them as pleasantly as he could after a dreadful shift. "You're the last ones here, and not to be rude or anything, but I would really appreciate it, Quinn, that if you're planning to move your date along for the night, to please not do so in our apartment."

She flushed a deep crimson, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Real classy, Sam."

"What's he talking about?" Biff asked, darting his eyes between the two roommates.

"Nothing!" Quinn sputtered, gathering her belongings and rising to her feet as her date mirrored her actions. "We apologize for the inconvenience."

"Why don't we can continue this at my place?" Biff suggested, a naïvely eager tone in his voice. "I live in the Upper East Side, and I'd be happy to drive you home after."

Quinn's gaze flickered over to the barista for a split second as he tried to be discreet while clearing the table and then effectively making himself scarce behind the counter.

"Well, Biff," she began uncertainly, and Sam hid his smirk behind his task of washing the cups. "It's late and I have an early morning tomorrow, and since Sam and I share an apartment, I was thinking that I could go home with him; share a cab together."

_That's a fucking shit-like rejection, if I'd ever heard one in my life._

"Oh."

"Yeah, but I'll call you, okay?" she was swift to add. "And you have my number now, so it shouldn't be such a hassle the next time round."

Sam snorted.

"Of course," he heard Biff reply, the disappointment evident. "Well, then, I best be going. You sure you don't need a ride home, Quinn? I have my Porsche parked around the corner."

Sam might or might not have rolled his eyes.

"No, that's fine," Quinn politely declined. "I'll just wait for Sam to be done."

There was a short pause, to which Sam craned his neck to glance over his shoulder, noticing that Biff was straightening his clothes. Even from a distance, the awkwardness was palpable. If there was even a possibility of a second date, it was definitely gone now.

Biff broke the deafening silence by clearing his throat. "Well, then, good night, Quinn Fabray. I had a lovely evening."

"Have a good night, Biff McIntosh."

Sam waited until his footsteps were no longer heard and that the door had closed after him before he spun around, crowing in triumph, releasing all that had been pent up since the evening, simply beside himself with stitches.

"You owe me ten bucks," he reminded her between gasps of laughter.

Quinn marched across the room and practically shoved the slightly crumpled note into his chest, scowling—almost seething with rage—as she glared daggers into his green eyes.

"Thank you," he snickered. "I think I'll just add this to my tip tonight, what with everything that disastrous date had cost me."

"Look, if you're just going to stand there and gloat, and be insufferable for the rest of the night, then maybe I should just grab my own cab and save myself the torture," she spat out, then whirled around and stalked towards the exit.

"Oh, hey, no, come back." The words were out of his mouth before he could even process them through his head. It seemed to be a nasty habit around her. "Okay, fine, I'll stop."

She halted just shy of the door, one hand already on the handle.

"Just let me finish up here real quick and we'll leave, alright?"

Very slowly, she turned back around, brows still furrowed and far from placated. "You have five minutes."

Sam wordlessly returned to his work, straightening out the shelves, ensuring that all the machinery were properly switched off, dumping the dirty rags into a hamper and taking the trash out into the back alley. He came back into the café to find Quinn perched on the countertop with her back to him, an earpiece on and her head bopping to the music. After untying his apron and hanging it on the hook, he came up behind her and gave the cord a tug.

"What the—rude!"

"I'm done," he told her. "Now, if you don't mind, could you please get your cute little ass off the counter? I don't want to have to sanitize it again."

She narrowed her eyes, but hopped off anyway. "You know, Sam, some people might appreciate my cute little ass being on their counter."

The corner of his lips twitched. "Was that supposed to turn me on?"

"Oh, please," she sneered, heading for the front door. "Not even if you're the last remaining organism on the planet."

"Says the woman whose date just recited Shakespeare at an Open Mike session," he shot back as he began shutting off the lights. "Are these desperate times, Quinnie?"

"Don't call me that!" she hissed, flagging for the yellow taxi that was approaching. "And what did I say about being insufferable?"

"That you'd grab your own cab?" Sam sarcastically parroted while he turned the lock.

"That's right. See you at home, Sam."

And she was gone.

_Fucking hell._

* * *

><p>Quinn emerged from the bathroom, fresh out of the shower when Sam trudged into the apartment, a storm brewing behind his striking emerald orbs, his fists clenched by his sides. The instant his gaze landed on her, he marched over, nostrils flaring and stopped with his nose barely inches from hers.<p>

"That's real mature, Quinn," he groused out through gritted teeth. "You're a right little minx, aren't you? A tease. You lead guys on and then conveniently drop them when you deem them unnecessary."

She folded her arms across her chest, miffed that he was lashing out at her for something so trivial. How was what she had done any different from what he did the first time they met? If memory serves her right, he had once stolen her ride from under her nose. Why was he being petty now?

"Are you serious right now, Sam?" she grunted. "Get over it, already. You brought it upon yourself, and you got burned. I've given you ample warnings, and time and time again you've chosen to ignore them, so here I am giving you a taste of your own medicine."

He stepped that much closer, if that was even possible—the front of his sneakers prodding against her toes—and she fought to breathe. "You know what your problem is, Quinn? You're this wound-up jack-in-the-box just waiting to pop, and it's not so hot anymore. It's just exhausting."

"Well, suck it up, because that's exactly how I feel about you too," she snapped, just as assertive in her stare. "I've had to deal with you for less than a week, and you've already turned my life upside down. You need to stop."

"I need to stop?" he threw back lividly. "I've been trying to be a civilized human being with you, but you're obviously so set in your ways about me, you can't even see that."

"You've been nothing but a conceited jerk!"

"And you've been nothing but a pain in my ass! You're not the only one whose life has just turned about a million degrees."

"This is insane," she shrieked. "You are impossible to live with!"

His vehement expression slipped marginally, a glint of cunning mischief sneaking into his eyes. "I'm sorry, did you just admit to defeat? That you, Quinn Fabray, cannot handle living with me?"

She reeled back, blinking, and was hit with the sudden realization that he had completely played her at her own game. "Fuck you, Sam!"

The guitarist feigned an exaggerated gasp. "Such language! I believe that's an automatic foul, is it not?"

Her mouth snapped shut with a click, her body trembling with the wrath of a hurricane, and in that instant, she didn't trust herself to not kill him with her bare hands. Sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of her bottom lip, she curled her fingers around the soft cotton of her sweats to resist the strong physical urge to inflict actual pain to his person, and instead drew in a long breath of air, desperately grasping onto the tiny shreds of composure left in her.

_Don't. Let. Him. Win._

"I'm going to bed," she announced, primly smoothing down the wrinkles on her pants. "Good night."

Without bothering to wait for his reply, Quinn swiveled around and retreated into her bedroom, making a point to slam the door shut.

_Where's a trained assassin when I need one?_

* * *

><p>Sam stayed rooted on the spot, his gaze still locked on the space that she had vacated. He was stewing, deliberating on the guilt that was stirring in the pit of his stomach, baffled by the maelstrom of emotions brewing in his chest. It shouldn't be catching him off guard; he had been triumphant in his revenge on Quinn Fabray, he ought to be celebrating. Instead, he was mulling over the repercussions of his foolishness.<p>

He had won; they were now even on their foul meter, so why was it that all he wanted to do was barge into her room and apologize until she forgave him? Why was the need to comfort her so overwhelming? In one thrumming rush, he felt stifled just being in the apartment.

He needed to get out of there.

Half an hour later, he found himself pounding at Noah Puckerman's door. It was about a quarter to one, but he was certain his band mate was still very much wide-awake. When they had shared the flat before, Puck would pester him for hours to engage him in the most trivial things—a Jackie Chan movie marathon, an impromptu air-guitar concert to the entire AC/DC discography, a milk-chugging contest, binge-watching Xena, the Warrior Princess, attempting to break a world record for 'biggest ice cream sundae', and those were when they were both stone cold sober—so he was confident that being in bed was the absolute last thing on the other guy's list of priorities.

"Who the fuck—" Puck growled when he appeared minutes later, hair a disheveled mess and naked from waist up. Sam was only thankful that at least he remembered to pull on a pair of shorts before answering the door. "You don't live here anymore, Evans, remember? You live in a loft at the other side of the city with a blonde control freak."

"Quit being an asshole and let me in." Sam didn't even wait to be invited in before shoving past the guy. "I just needed to get out of there for a bit. It got quite intense."

Puck padded over to the tiny kitchenette and pulled out two bottles of beer from the fridge, popping the caps and handing one over to the other guitarist. "Trouble in paradise already?" he snickered.

Sam took a long-deserved gulp and sighed. "She's a fucking lunatic, alright? She's got all these stupid rules imposed so that I'd break them and then she'd win the bet, but I'd be pissed dead before I'd ever let that happen. Surely she wouldn't expect me not to retaliate, right? And then when I do, she'd get all riled up about it and make me look like the bad person, and it's driving me absolutely nuts—"

"Okay, wait, hang on," Puck cut in. "Start from the beginning, man. What happened?"

"That blonde she-devil popped into my life, that's what happened—"

"Would you two pussies shut the hell up?" Santana's voice interrupted just then, like fingernails against a chalkboard, just grating on Sam's nerves. Her head poked out from Puck's bedroom and she was giving the two musicians the stink eye so severe, he might've caught Puck shuddering with fright. "I'm working an early shift and I'd be damned if I have to listen to you bitch and whine the whole night. Man up or I'll feed your balls to the dogs."

Sam swore under his breath, tired of slamming doors, and vowed to burn each and every one of it in hell.

"We can go up to the roof if you want," Puck proposed with a shrug.

"Seriously?"

"I still have to deal with her when you're gone, Sam, so cut me some slack and let's go before she follows up on her threats."

In hindsight, they should probably have thought the plan through, because it was fucking freezing up on the rooftop. Puck, apparently sharing his discomfort, shuffled around the corner towards a row of potted plants where he had kept his secret stash in a metallic box. There was a bottle of rather expensive scotch and two packs of smokes.

"You've been holding back from me?" Sam groused as he took a hefty swig, coughing and wincing as it burned down his throat. "Damn, that's strong."

"It's a recent development," Puck shrugged, pulling out a stick and lighting it up. He took a long drag before lowering himself to sit on the edge of the building. Sam followed suit, one hand still holding the alcohol. "You know I love Santana, but the woman has a personality the speed of a fucking freight train. It hits you, and then it leave you high and dry, and you're left reeling from the whole traumatic experience."

Sam chuckled and refused Puck's offer of a puff from his cigarette. "That's one way of putting it."

"So what's your deal tonight?" his former-roommate asked. "Something happened with you and Quinn?"

With a sigh, Sam took a sip of the scotch before recounting the events of the evening. "She had a date earlier on with this dude, Biff McIntosh, and he came into the café the other day to ask for my help since he didn't have her number. So, out of goodwill, I accepted the date on her behalf, and since she doesn't have a damn cell phone, I sent her an email instead. It's valid, isn't it?" He didn't pause for Puck to reply, but rather simply bulldozed right on. "It's definitely not my fault that she thought the email was from some creep in the IT department and hadn't shown up for the date. But guess what; Biff came to the apartment, and then it got dramatic—as it always does with Quinn—even though she was completely overreacting. So fine, whatever; she offered to be there for the Open Mike session. Problem solved, right? Well, fuck, I was wrong."

Puck grimaced, uncharacteristically sympathetic. "She chewed you out, didn't she?"

"She gave me a foul for nosing around in her business," Sam told him monotonously. "Can you believe it? I was just trying to help ease that pole out of her ass."

"And what happened tonight?"

"First of all, I tried staying away, but the dude kept hounding me about Quinn, and then she showed up all breathless and apologetic, and it was almost impossible not to poke the bear a bit, you know?"

Puck guffawed after a sip of scotch. "You have a fucking death wish, don't you?"

"She makes it too easy."

"So that's it?" Puck prodded on. "Open Mike session on a first date?"

"He did Shakespeare."

The other guy choked on his smoke. "What?"

"Twelfth Night, to be exact, and the entire first act." Sam shuddered just recalling the twenty minutes of pure agony. "It was an abomination, and then of course it all went downhill from there. Quinn wasn't impressed; heck, I wouldn't be, that idiot, but for some unknown reason, they stayed till closing time. I had to remind them that I needed to go home too."

Puck shook his head. "She actually stayed on after Shakespeare?"

"Lord knows why," Sam quipped back in amusement. "Anyway, that's not important. It's what came afterwards."

He began a play-by-play of the evening's affairs, from Quinn's rather hilarious rejection to Biff's invitation, to the extremely engaging—and immensely satisfying—way in which he had succeeded at beating her at her own game.

"Do you know what I think?" Puck spoke up after a pause at the end of the story, stubbing his cigarette out.

The bottle of scotch was almost empty, and Sam wondered for a second if he had drank it all. "What?"

"I think Blondie needs to get laid."

"Oh, definitely."

"No, you don't get it," Puck grinned smugly. "She's so high-strung all the time because she's got all this pent-up sexual frustration, and I feel that you should really take full advantage of it."

Sam scrunched his nose up in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Sex is key."

"I'm not following."

Puck reached over to snatch the bottle from Sam's hand. "Okay, this back-and-forth thing that you find completely exhausting, it's like verbal foreplay to hide the fact that she's physically attracted to you. She doesn't know how to go about expressing it, so she's doing what every woman does: retaliate."

"Wait, what?" Sam crowed. "You can't be more wrong about that. Quinn Fucking Fabray finds me utterly repulsive."

"Trust me, dude," Puck insisted. "If she's not interested, she would've ignored you; plain and simple. The fact that she didn't kick your sorry ass the second time she met you, and had actually entertained you all this while; I think that she secretly harbors some lustful, not-so-innocent thoughts about you."

"And you know this how?"

Puck tutted, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm the one with the girlfriend, aren't I?"

"Santana nearly ripped your balls off the first time you two met."

"It's called 'tough love'," Puck deadpanned. "You ought to give it a shot and quit with the wanking—give your hand a break—then maybe you wouldn't be such an unbearable ass-hat yourself."

Sam scowled at his band mate. "You're being a dick."

"And you're being a fucking coward. This is war, Sam, and you need a plan of attack. Quinn has one—she probably has a million more—but if there's one thing worse than hate, it's hurt. Make her fall in love with you; seduce her into bed and then break her heart."

"Just why do you think that's a good idea, exactly?"

"See, right now, you both have similar strategies; to repel each other, grate on each other's nerves enough until one of you snap, and that's good and all, but you're working within a time frame, and I hate to break it to you but women have the stubbornness and patience of an alligator," Puck went on, his tone laced with slight bitterness, probably from his own experience with Santana. "So what you're going to do is the total opposite. Be the best fucking roommate ever, win her over, and then she wouldn't know what to do with herself."

"I don't know, dude," Sam muttered, pondering on the different scenarios that he would ultimately be entangled with. "Playing with a girl's feelings can be a bit messy and way too much trouble."

"Think about it, Sam: Free rent and a chance at gloating to your heart's content."

The prospect was incredibly tempting, not to mention the amount of entertainment that it might possibly bring to his rather uneventful life, and it wasn't as if he had suddenly sprouted a conscience and jeopardize his win. He went into this bet determined to walk out of it victorious, and there was no way in hell he would surrender in the hands of Quinn Fabray.

"Okay, so what's next?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So, there are a couple of developments in this chapter. Bye-bye Biff! We might or might not see the last of him, but he's not going to be a threat anymore, now that he's actually a bore to be with. Sam managed to wrangle a foul out of Quinn even though it was a cheap shot on his part. And a change in game plan, compliments of Noah Puckerman, so we can expect things to be really interesting from here on.

**NileyOvergron:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it, and although sexy times between Fabrevans isn't going to happen so soon, rest assured, it's well on its way! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**CarefreeCanary:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like how I've portrayed the characters, especially their dynamics! It's been such fun to write, and now that things have shifted, it's going to be even more interesting!

**Dosqueen67:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving a review! As always, I really appreciate it! I don't foresee me not finishing this story; it's been fun writing it so far! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**RJRRAA:** Hello there! As always, thank you so much for reading and leaving such a wonderful review! I love that Sam knows which buttons to push to rile Quinn up, but I'm excited about what he's going to do next now that he has a change in game plan! Hope you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

**Guest [1]:** Sorry, what?

**Guest [2]:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving such a lovely lengthy review! I really appreciate it, and I'm flattered and incredibly humbled by your wonderful comments! I love that you mentioned how Quinn would pop Sam's ego with her neatly manicured nails! LOL! They are both definitely equal contenders, both equally as stubborn as each other, and both with equally large egos. Sexy Fabrevans time wouldn't happen for a bit, but the premises have been set for a shift in dynamics between them, especially now that Sam has changed his game plan and attempt to seduce Quinn. LOL! I can't wait to write those moments! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

**Guest [3]:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it, and thank you so much for the lovely comments! I'm glad you've enjoyed my works so far! Cheers!

**Ssauers:** Hi there! Thank you for reading and leaving a review! I really appreciate it! Glad you like the story so far! Cheers!


End file.
